


Losing Control

by Mona_Lisa



Series: The Power of Protection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Doctor John Watson, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pining John Watson, Protective John Watson, Sexual Assault, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 115,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mona_Lisa/pseuds/Mona_Lisa
Summary: During a night out with John and Greg, Sherlock is drugged and assaulted by a stranger. Afterwards, John is terribly worried about his best friend who doesn't deem it necessary to talk about what happened to him. Instead, he throws himself into his work. John, overcome with protectiveness for Sherlock, struggles to keep him out of further trouble, simultaneously he is trying to deal with his own strange feelings for him...NOW COMPLETE
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Power of Protection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997917
Comments: 178
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first _Sherlock_ story ever although not my first piece of fanfiction. I just discovered the series recently and instantly fell in love with it. More specifically, I fell in love with the relationship of Sherlock and John. I'm very much into their bromance :) As I'm writing this story I have no idea if it's gonna end up just in the bromance angle or if there's going to be more. I'm entirely not sure as I tend to write with a certain plot in my mind and then the characters just lead me somewhere else :)  
> (**Edit: 02nd Nov 2020: I've decided to take the Johnlock route :) )
> 
> A little bit of a warning: This story has non-con elements in it, there's not going to be a "real" rape (meaning penetration although rape usually begins a lot earlier than that, this is just trying to describe what's going to happen). But there's going to be non-con touching and kissing so be aware of that.
> 
> You should also know that I'm not an English Native speaker although I studied the language and I've been watching movies/shows and reading books in English for two decades actually so I'm hoping it's good enough. Please feel free to point out grammatical errors I've made or suggestions on how to phrase a sentence better. I'm always keen on improving my language and writing skills.
> 
> I'm very grateful for feedback so please leave a comment if you liked (or disliked) what you've read.
> 
> Okay, that's enough from me, let's get on with the story :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s the evening after they got home from Dartmoor where they solved the case of “The Hound of Baskervilles“. This is sort of a prologue for the actual story._

John felt very tired. They had just arrived home from Devon where they had solved the unbelievable case of the hound of Baskervilles. It was eight o'clock in the evening and John had almost fallen asleep in the cab on their way home. Almost three hours on the train with Sherlock babbling on and on about the details of their latest case would do that to you. And they didn’t even offer a good cup of tea on the train!  


__

That’s why he was thankful for Mrs. Hudson, bustling about in their living room in order to provide them with a good old “cuppa” of tea and some of her homemade sandwiches. He was not, however, thankful for Sherlock repeating everything about the Baskerville case – again – to Mrs. Hudson in tiniest detail just so she wouldn’t miss anything about the “brilliance” he had once more proven, as he himself put it _oh so modestly_.  


__

“You see Mrs. Hudson, the drug was in the fog and there were pressure pads on the ground so that everyone going to that very spot in the forest would experience these hallucinations”, Sherlock was just saying as he danced around the room still clad in his Belstaff, waving his hands around to emphasize the dramatics of the whole thing.  


__

“Don’t you think that’s exciting, Mrs. Hudson?” He took her hands into his to beam at her, an expression of pure bliss on his face, reminding John of a little boy on Christmas Eve.  


__

He let go of her hands, turned around with a dramatic sigh, and chuckled. “Oh, I just love when they are intelligent, it makes for so much more interesting cases.”  


__

He snatched the cup of tea out of Mrs. Hudson’s slightly shaky hand (she always got a little nervous when he was in a state like this, he was just so fidgety) and swallowed its contents greedily (probably had a dry throat from all the babbling) – promptly burning himself in the process. “Ouch!”  


__

“Careful dear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed and she took the cup out of his hand again, scowling at him like a mother would at her insolent child. Just a second later she couldn’t help herself but smile because of Sherlock’s antics. She had missed them, John knew, life without them and their cases had to be boring for her.  


__

She waved at the sofa and threw Sherlock a pointed look. “Take a deep breath, dear, and sit down. You just got home, no need to tell me everything in one sitting.”  


__

After pacing around a little more, Sherlock nodded to himself as if to relent and he sat himself down on the sofa. He didn’t relax into it, however, nor did he calm down a little, instead he continued prattling on about H.O.U.N.D. and what that project had been about. John observed him from his position at the kitchen counter and couldn’t help but chuckle at Sherlock too. He had enjoyed solving this case with him and he had to admit it had turned out quite unexpectedly. So yeah, he could understand why his roommate had such an urge to recount their adventure to Mrs. Hudson so vividly. However, he couldn’t help but interrupt Sherlock with a deep “Ahem!”  


__

“What?” Sherlock blinked once in annoyance at the interruption and looked at John questioningly.  


John tried to hide his grin. “Sherlock, you’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”  


__

At Sherlock’s irritated scowl and raised eyebrow John swallowed down his urge to chuckle and looked at his roommate in mock confusion.  


__

“You told Mrs. Hudson everything about the drug and how you found out about it being in the fog and all, but you failed to inform her about your mistake.”  


__

Sherlock blushed – a very delicious und rare sight for John - and looked down. “Well, that… that’s not so important.”  


__

Mrs. Hudson looked from Sherlock to John and back again, clearly intrigued.  


__

“Well, “John said triumphantly, “I think it’s very important.” He turned to his landlady. “You see, Sherlock made a mistake. He thought the drug was in the sugar, he became quite obsessed with that thought. Only to be proven wrong in the end.”  


__

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrow. “What, you mean the great Sherlock Holmes made a mistake like that? Unbelievable!” And she turned towards Sherlock with the same mock confusion face as John at which Sherlock huffed indignantly, folding his hands in front of his chest, pouting.  


__

“Oh, come on, Sherlock, don’t pout, you know I’m just teasing you a little.” Sherlock huffed again but looked at John and blushed again as his friend winked at him amicably.  


__

A comfortable silence stretched out the room in which Mrs. Hudson first got John his well-deserved cup of tea, then sat down next to Sherlock to hand him his cup. She put her hand on Sherlock's arm and leaned a little into his space. “It’s good to have you back, “she said with a big smile on her face, squeezing his arm in honest affection and he gave her a tiny, sarcastic smile back.  


__

“Cheer up, Sherlock, “John chuckled, “tomorrow I’ll write the article on this case and I won’t focus on your little slip-up too much.” And because Sherlock glared at him in obvious annoyance he added “Okay, there’s no way I’m not mentioning it, but that’s simply just payback for the little joke you had at my expense. You know, with locking me up in that laboratory, giving me the impression, I was hunted by a terrifying huge hound going in for the kill….”  


__

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to be mean about it, “Sherlock jumped in, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s curious side look. “Everyone makes little mistakes from time to time, it doesn't mean anything.”  


__

John had pity on his friend and changed the subject to the beautiful scenery of Devon, its moor and its people, which Mrs. Hudson seemed moderately interested in. Sherlock made a remark here and there and so they chattered away for a good twenty minutes.  


__

“Goodness, John, you’re falling asleep in your shoes, “Mrs. Hudson exclaimed suddenly, and she got up to pull at John’s jacket which he still hadn’t taken off. “Please, you can tell me the rest of your story tomorrow, please go to bed now, you must be exhausted from your travels.” She was of course right and suddenly John was excited at the thought of lying down in his own comfortable bed instead of a foreign albeit cosy one.  


__

He let himself be ushered towards his bedroom by Mrs. Hudson and promised her to go to bed immediately and not lie awake to start writing that article.  


__

“Night, Sherlock, “he shouted over his shoulder and he got a soft “Night, John” back. Maybe his roommate was getting a little tired after all.  


__

He shut the door behind him and could still hear Mrs. Hudson ordering Sherlock to go to bed, too, cleaning their used teacups and muttering to herself after which she retired to her own flat at last. John now changed into his pyjamas, quickly snuck into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then made himself comfortable in his bed and sighed, grateful for a little peace and quiet at last. He snuggled into his pillows, closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep immediately when he heard someone knock at his door.  


__

He sighed and sat himself up again. “Yes, Sherlock? What is it?”  


__

The door opened hesitantly, and Sherlock peeked his head around the corner. “John?” When he saw John waiting for him sitting on his bed he stepped inside and stood there, looking a little bashful.  


__

“Yes, Sherlock, what is it?” John repeated. “I’m really tired.”  


__

“Yes, of course, sorry, “Sherlock muttered, “of course, it’s not that late and we haven’t travelled the whole day, it’s not as if we’ve left the country but your condition is not the best and you do not work out often enough so that’s no surprise…Apart from that you had your eyes closed on the train a lot so I’d say that counts as resting so why you still feel the urge to go to bed so early is a little beyond me but that’s just my opinion. Well, in fact…”  


__

“Sherlock!”  


__

Sherlock jumped a little and stopped talking, having - it seemed - realized at last he was babbling.  


__

“Was there something _important_ you wanted to tell me?” John asked, now really getting tired. He had enough of Sherlock’s ramblings for one day.  


__

“Yes, “Sherlock mumbled, and he started pacing in John’s bedroom.” There’s one thing I have to say, so please just let me say it, and then I’m out of your hair so you can catch your beauty sleep or whatever.” At John’s sharp intake of breath, Sherlock raised his right hand quickly as if to stop him from disrupting him again and continued. “I know, I know.”  


__

Then he resumed pacing and mumbling about laboratories and fake hounds and the importance of authentic experiments and John had to lean forward so he could make out all the crazy chaos spilling out of his friend’s mouth but it was getting difficult so he disrupted loudly once again: “Sherlock! Just get to the point.”  


__

Sherlock stopped the pacing and looked at John with a serious look. “Okay. John, I need to say something, and I need you to hear it.” Pause. John looked expectantly at the great detective. “Yes?”  


__

A few seconds passed, then a heavy sigh from Sherlock, followed by “I’m sorry.”  


__

John frowned. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”  


__

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for locking you in the laboratory and making you believe you were haunted by a ghost hound. It was not nice and I’m sorry I made you go through that.” He let out a little shaky breath and looked at John expectantly. When John stared at him speechlessly Sherlock continued ranting.  


__

“Okay, I’m not making fun of you, I mean it. I know what I said to you that other night when I lost control which was quite the most terrible thing that could have happened to me and it’s not fair of me to put you through the same ordeal, no, it’s really terrible. I’m ashamed of making that decision and I hope you can forgive me. Please, I can only reiterate what I said at the chapel: I only have one friend and that’s you, John…” He trailed off, looking a little lost and he ran a slightly trembling hand through his curly hair nervously. He swallowed heavily. “I’m grateful you’re my friend John. I really am. I’ve never had a friend like you and it’s…. well, it’s made my life so much better okay?” He looked down, obviously unable to look John in the eye anymore, and blushed.  


__

John was speechless. The great, cocky master detective was thankful. He was sorry and he was thankful. He felt really touched and he was at a loss at what to say.  


__

After a few seconds though he composed himself, cleared his voice, and said: “Well, Sherlock, I’m glad to hear that. I’m happy to be your friend and I’m glad you are mine.” Sherlock glanced up at him and smiled with relief when he saw the earnest but friendly face of his friend. “Even though it can get very tedious at times…” John couldn’t resist saying and after a second of looking at each other they both started chuckling in unison.  


__

“I forgive you, you know, “John said after they had quieted down. “In fact, I’ve already done that in case you haven’t noticed.”  


__

“I’m glad, “Sherlock answered relieved “and no, I wasn’t sure.” After another smile at his friend, he made his way to the door. “Goodnight John, “he said quietly, and he pulled the door open.  


__

“Wait.”  


__

Sherlock turned around and looked at his friend in surprise. “What?”  


__

Now it was John’s turn to fidget nervously. “What you said there a few moments ago, about losing control being the most terrible thing that could happen to you…. Did you mean that?”  


__

Sherlock sighed and nodded. “Yes. That night…was honestly truly terrifying for me. I lost control over myself. I was scared, John. In a way that I couldn’t think clearly anymore, I wasn’t myself anymore. By losing control, I lost myself and I cannot imagine something more terrible happening to me.”  


__

He looked at John as if to make sure his friend understood so John nodded sympathetically.  


__

“I am a master detective, my brain is highly functional, making brilliant and fast deductions is my life, John. It is me, my whole sense of existing. By doing that I always have control. That terrible drug made me lose that control and so I wasn’t only not able to make those highly effective deductions as usual, but I also lost control over my body. You saw me that night. I was scared, my hands were trembling, I was shaking and sweating. Ah, it was disgusting.”  


__

He wrinkled his nose in obvious disgust of himself at if it had been his own fault and John smiled inwardly to himself because it was a little cute. But he also felt his heart tugging at this unexpected confession from the usually so distant man. It was … nice to be reminded he was a human being with feelings and all that. He did truly care for John. He had discovered that some time ago, at the latest on that night at the swimming pool when Sherlock had been totally out of it with worry over John wearing that explosive winter coat, ripping it off of him in a panic. They had even joked about it, how it must look like to others if they had seen them like that. John smiled when he thought of that memory.  


__

“I hated losing myself like that, John.”  


__

John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the wall, lost in that moment where he had not been in control.  


__

“Sherlock…”  


__

“No. Please believe me, John.” His voice had started shaking a little and he raised his head to look at John in quiet despair. “There were other times where someone drew a gun on me or something like that, trying to intimidate me. But I had my mind you know. I still had that.”  


__

John nodded in understanding.  


__

“I never want to experience something like that ever again, John, “Sherlock said quietly.  


__

“Okay. I understand.” John scooted forward in his position so that he was near his friend and he reached out to softly grasp Sherlock’s hand. “It’s okay, “he said quietly, looking into his friend’s green-blue eyes. “I understand.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand in an unusual tender gesture and Sherlock looked at him nervously, a little surprised too.  


__

“Th-thanks, John, “he murmured, then he softly but decisively pulled his hand away from John. There was silence as they looked at each other in wonder. As if each had learned something new about the other. It was nice somehow.  


__

Then they smiled shyly and looked away again.  


__

“Goodnight, John, “Sherlock said again, this time with a strong voice.  


__

“You too, Sherlock.”  


__

And then he was gone. John settled back into his pillows, switched the lights off, and closed his eyes. Somehow, he found himself unable to fall asleep despite his utter exhaustion a few minutes ago. Instead, he spent a good amount of time lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts about his strange roommate Sherlock Holmes. His _friend_ Sherlock Holmes. Sleep evaded him for a long time until he was finally released into a peaceful slumber.

__


	2. Chapter 2

_Six weeks later_  


It was Saturday night and they had finally solved a very frustrating and complicated murder case that had occupied them for the last few weeks. Especially Sherlock had been utterly invested -well, as usual, but even more than that which had cost John a lot of sleep because of his friend’s habit of staying up all night, playing the violin (which he always did when he was caught up in a dead-end in a case).  


John had, as was usual by now, long given up on trying to get the detective to behave like a normal human being and accepted the more than usual untidy apartment, the strange stuff in the fridge, and the demanding texts out of nowhere, ordering him all around London in a frantic paper chase for clues. Same procedure as always, just a little more intense than usual. Sherlock had eaten and slept even less than on other cases, driving John half-insane with his crazy mumbling around all day, deducing when he could, despairing and wallowing in self-pity when he couldn’t because there were no tangible clues.  


But this morning they had finally found the crucial clue. The critical information which led them to their murderer. After yet another frantic chase with John and Sherlock in a cab, Lestrade and his men right behind them in their cars, they had managed to corner and eventually arrest their suspect without any casualties. Sherlock had hurled all the frustration of the last few weeks at the completely confused murderer which led to his eventual arrest. He was just so utterly confounded by Sherlock’s rapid wall of accusations and deductions, his mouth hanging open, that he simply didn’t notice Lestrade advancing in on him from the side until it was too late.  


“They couldn’t have done it without me, naturally, “Sherlock announced afterwards, obviously not a little proud of himself.  


“Yes, you’ve done it again, “John clapped him on the back, “congratulations, oh master detective.” And he bowed his head together with a theatrical hand wave, snickering to himself.  


Sherlock shoved him a little, but playfully. “Ah, you’re just jealous, because I was the one who thought of that white vest being the clue and you know it.”  


John looked up to see his friend winking at him. It was really nice to see Sherlock so relaxed again and he was happy to put up with his little arrogant antics if that was the price he had to pay for that. He was always a little worried for Sherlock’s health when he got so obsessed with a case although he wouldn’t admit it openly.  


He was glad the case was over, and they hoped they could have some peace and quiet now, at least for a while. Just a few boring little cases maybe for a change. Well, maybe not because boring cases meant a frustrated Sherlock and that meant bullets in Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper and even crazier experiments in the fridge.  


“Come on, master detective. Let’s get home and tell Mrs. Hudson the good news. We can celebrate with some tea and biscuits.”  


Mrs. Hudson would be delighted. A solved case would mean at least a little peace and quiet for a few days because Sherlock tended to sleep a lot in order to allow his “transport” some much-needed rest.  


John chuckled as he remembered the not-so-rare occasions when Sherlock had simply collapsed in their living room after a solved case and he and Mrs. Hudson had to half-drag, half-carry him to his bed where he had slept for up to twenty hours. Maybe he would get to witness that again tonight, to be honest, he wouldn’t mind, he could always use a good laugh.  


“Well, boys! That’s a wrap.”  


This came from Lestrade who had followed them on their way away from the arrested man and the hustle around him.  


“Good work, I must say. You did it again.” He came up behind them and put one hand on John’s and one on Sherlock’s shoulder, standing between them. “I’m impressed. Care to celebrate a little? This one was quite difficult, and I think we deserve to blow off some steam.”  


He looked from John to Sherlock and back to John expectantly. They looked at each other and hesitated.  


“Well, “John started, “I thought some tea and biscuits would be nice…”  


“Tea and biscuits?” Lestrade laughed, not unkindly. “How old are you boys, sixty? Let’s go out and have a little drink, you know, like real men.”  


Sherlock frowned and John could read his thoughts easily. Alcohol was very seldomly an option for the brilliant detective because he despised the way it made people weak, made them lose themselves. Sherlock only ever drank when he was very, very frustrated with something or when it was needed in a case. So, John interrupted when his friend opened his mouth to refuse.  


“That’s a nice idea, Greg. Why not?”  


And at Sherlock’s confused look at him, he added “We don’t have to drink much, Sherlock. You don’t even have to drink anything with alcohol in it if you don’t want to.”  


Sherlock still hesitated.  


John leaned forward and nudged his friend in the side playfully. “Come on, oh master detective, allow yourself some fun for a change, hm?”  


Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that but couldn’t suppress a weak grin at John’s sudden eagerness to go wild.  


“Alright, “he conceded with an exaggerated sigh, “if you insist. But I’ll leave when I want to.”  


John nodded quickly and Lestrade cheered joyfully. They hadn’t done such a thing ever and it would be fun to just be colleagues slash friends and have a good time. Not concentrate on solving complicated riddles, but just relax for a change. And John would really like to relax and for Sherlock to do so, too.  


They agreed to meet Lestrade in one hour in which he would make all the arrangements for the murderer to be settled at the police station.  


7 o'clock. A bar in the city where they were supposed to have amazing burgers which John suddenly craved.  


They had stopped at home to change into more comfortable clothes which meant a fresh brown lumberjack shirt for John as well as his beloved green jacket and a pale blue dress shirt and trousers for Sherlock. He couldn’t persuade his friend to leave his Belstaff at home for once. Well, he wouldn’t be Sherlock without that coat, would he? The scarf, too although it was only early autumn and quite mild outside.  


They found themselves at the pub a little later, Greg catching up with them only ten minutes later. They ordered some beer and said hamburgers with chips although Sherlock was content with just chips. John was grateful he was ordering anything at all, so he didn’t say anything.  


“Cheers, mates, “Greg said when they finally got their orders – it was quite the busy night – and the three of them raised their glasses to each other in a rare moment of camaraderie. It was nice, John thought. They should be doing this more often. Even 

Sherlock seemed relatively relaxed although he usually didn’t enjoy loud crows as well as many people stuffed together in one hot, room. John watched as Sherlock glanced around himself nervously at times as if to reassure himself there was still an exit he could take any time, but Sherlock caught him looking once and he smiled at him in silent reassurance. _It’s okay_ , his look said. _I’m fine._  


So, John stopped worrying around Sherlock and dug into his food with a ravenous appetite. Greg followed his example and even Sherlock seemed to enjoy nibbling at his chips with ketchup.  


One and a half hours later and they still had a good time. The food was gone but they had their fourth glass of beer in front of them. Well, at least Greg and John had, Sherlock was on his second glass, but it was nearly untouched. John understood, his friend wanted to maintain a clear mind. That was totally okay, but he himself didn’t mind the small buzz the alcohol in his blood provided. He was relaxed, he was with friends and he was having fun.  


They reminisced about old cases, about odd little details Sherlock would have been obsessed with and they made light fun of each other in playful companionship. This night out felt great and John was happy.  


The crowd had grown considerably, in fact, the place was packed. It was getting more difficult to understand what his friends were saying and they had to shout at each other which was a little tiring. But it didn’t matter, the more he drank the more he didn’t mind and the less they talked. You didn’t need to talk much when you could just sip at your beer and observe the crowd around them, making some comment to his friends when the need arose.  


“The waitress hasn’t been here for a while, “he observed suddenly. “I need another beer.”  


Lestrade looked at his own empty glass and said “Me, too.”  


Just as John started to get up from his chair to go search for the waitress, he felt Sherlock’s slender hand on his shoulder, “I’ll do it, John. I’ll get you your drinks. I need to move my legs a little anyway.” He looked up at his friend gratefully and nodded.  


////////

Sherlock had to push against a seemingly endless count of bodies in order to find his way to the bar counter. He was getting a little annoyed at all the dumb people who ignored his polite requests to step aside and, in turn, used his elbows more frequently in order to reach his destination. He was a little unnerved already, the heat and the volume had started getting to him an hour ago. He felt like it was getting more difficult to breathe and he was grateful for the chance to maybe step outside for a bit of fresh air before getting his friends more beer.  


At last he was able to stumble out of the pub and he relaxed instantly at the mild October air greeting him. He hadn’t taken his coat with him but he wouldn’t stay outside for long so that wouldn’t be a problem. He positioned his glass of beer on a spot on the wall next to him, rummaged in his pockets following a sudden craving, and found what he was looking for, _thank God_. Grinning in triumph he pulled out his pack of cigarettes with only two left (no wonder after that stressful latest case, fuck that nicotine patch) and lit it instantly.  


He felt himself relax even more at once and he sighed in content as the first rush of nicotine coursed through his body.  


Sherlock smiled to himself as he smoked. Despite being in this awful loud place he didn’t have an awful time. John was happy and relaxed, and Sherlock was happy to see his friend in such a state. He knew how he strained his friend’s nerves while they were on cases and he was sincerely sorry for how he treated him sometimes, but he mostly couldn’t help it, it’s just the way he was. He just got like that when his mind was overflowing with the need to deduce, to analyze. He just hoped his friend would be okay with that for as long as they worked together (which would be a long time, hopefully) and so he was happy to treat John to some well-deserved fun.  


And he was having fun, too. He was also stressed because of the loudness and the hotness and he definitely wouldn’t last more than another hour, but he had been having fun with his friends until now and he was grateful for that.  


“Care to share?” A deep vibrant voice near him suddenly asked.  


Sherlock looked up in surprise and saw another man approaching him slowly. He was tall and burly, with a dark beard and long blond hair reaching his shoulders.  


At once, Sherlock's mind started cataloging: _male in his late thirties in good condition, very attractive (objectively speaking) and used to compliments from others which can be observed from his confident posture, but also moderately drunk because of the slight tumble in his walk, though not too drunk to walk and talk relatively normally.“Good” clothes, fine expensive jacket, and shoes. No wedding ring so no wife, but a tattoo on his lower left arm which simply read “Robin” so he has been quite involved with some woman in his history, at least very emotionally invested. Well, it could have been an impulse which had made him get the tattoo but this man didn’t seem to be too impulsive but rather a man who was organized which would be suggested by his matching pale blue shirt beneath his open jacket and his blue cap. Which also meant that he was a vain man, appearance mattered to him and…._  


“Did you hear me?”  


Sherlock blinked in surprise as his rapid thought process was interrupted by that deep, velvet voice. He looked up at the man who was now standing right in front of him, a wide smirk on his face ( _well-formed lips, perfect white teeth, takes good care of himself, undermined by the perfume on him, not too strong, not too weak, only three splashes, more would make him smell cheap. Okay, Sherlock, stop._  


He shook his head just a little to will himself into stopping his deductions which was really hard and tried to politely smile at the guy.  


“Sorry, what?”  


The man jerked his chin at the cigarette in Sherlock’s hand. “Care to share with me, mate? I forgot mine at home unfortunately and would be really grateful for a smoke.”  


“Oh, sure, go ahead.” Sherlock held out his nearly empty pack of cigarettes and the man took the last cigarette with a slight raise of his eyebrow and a sheepish grin. “Thanks, mate, I owe you.”  


Sherlock simply hummed and watched as the man lit up the cigarette with a lighter he surprisingly had thought to bring with him, in contrast to the apparently forgotten cigarettes. He wasn’t too happy about having company, he had enjoyed being alone for a few minutes, enjoying the fresh air and a moment of peace and quiet with no loud people around him, crowding him.  


“The name’s Jack.” The man said as he exhaled his first cloud of smoke. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”  


Sherlock raised another eyebrow, irritated at how this man named Jack ( _masculine name, matching the appearance, although that is just a coincidence_ ) had called him. He chose to ignore it.  


As the man stared at him with an obvious question mark on his face Sherlock realized that he was expected to tell the man his name, too. Well, he couldn’t tell him the truth, that was obvious. He just wasn’t in the mood for another fan harassing him for details about murder cases, he was too tired for that.  


“I’m John, “he said spontaneously and snickered at once when he realized he had used his friend’s name by accident in order to hide his personality. He had to tell John later, he’d find that funny, too.  


“What’s so funny?” The other man asked with a loose smile on his lips, clearly interested as he stepped forward, crowding into Sherlock’s space.  


Sherlock smiled too but more to himself than the other man. “Oh, it’s nothing.”  


“You know, John?” Sherlock suddenly realized the guy was literally breathing into his face and he felt a foreign hand creeping up his arms, ghosting at the thin material of his shirt.  


“You’re quite beautiful when you laugh like that, “the man whispered into his ear, leaning forward, even more, to be able to do so. “I like it.”  


Sherlock shuddered, resisting the urge to analyze the approximate level of alcohol this Jack guy would have in his blood right now from his breath and he took a step back, raising his hands defensively to put some sort of barrier between himself and the other man.  


“How nice, “he said coldly, “but could you please take a step back?”  


“Why?” Jack didn’t seem impressed.  


Sherlock huffed in frustration at the obvious stupidity of the other man. “Because it makes me uncomfortable when you crowd me like that.”  


Jack grinned and took another step forward.  


“You mean like that?” he said, and Sherlock felt a small surge of panic rising within him when he felt his back collide with the wall behind him in a vain attempt to avoid the other man. He made a small movement towards his right and at once Jack raised his arm to block his escape route, the other one as well as Sherlock drifted to the left. He was truly cornered.  


Sherlock felt anger rising within him. What was this man’s problem? Why couldn’t he just stand outside for a minute and catch a whiff of fresh air without being disturbed by some random arsehole?  


He raised his head and looked directly into the other man’s dark eyes.  


“Leave me be, “he said calmly as he dared the other to make another move with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want you to touch me like this. I’d like to go back inside.”  


“Is that so?” Jack grinned even more, and Sherlock felt disgusted by that slimy leer, the physical attractiveness of the other man fading away in this pathetic display of male arrogance. He couldn’t help flinching when Jack closed his eyes and leaned a little forward to inhale Sherlock’s scent like a total creep. “Hmmm, you smell good, handsome, very inviting.” He opened his eyes again and nudged his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, his breath hot against his skin. “And these cheekbones, God, you’re sexy.”  


Sherlock remained stiff and silent while his mind raced through the possibilities of how to proceed next. He could break this man’s arm, he had done so in the past. Or he could just punch him in the stomach and leave although if the man was fit enough which he could possibly be from his outer appearance he may still stand after that and counterattack which wouldn’t be so great because then they had to fight in earnest and Sherlock really wasn’t in the mood for that. He’d like to go to bed tonight without a black eye if possible. Asking the man nicely seemed useless because he appeared determined to make Sherlock’s life difficult right now, for whichever reasons.  


But then Jack made another small step, closing what little space had still been there between them. He pressed against Sherlock, pressed him against the wall. He towered over him for he was considerably taller than him ( _approximately 6’3_ ) and he lowered his head to breathe against Sherlock's neck.  


“Come with me, sweetheart, “the deep voice said against his ear, “I promise you a good time.”  


And he nibbled at Sherlock’s ear at the same time that Sherlock could feel something hard pressing against his shirt’s fabric over his stomach. Pressing against his navel and that’s when Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.  


“Get off!” he cried, as he pushed back against the other man with all his might. Just a few centimetres were all he needed to quickly duck his head and torso under the man’s arm he had used to crowd him with and step away, putting much-needed space between them so he could breathe again.  


Jack turned towards him, irritated and surprised by the look on his face. “What?” He sounded less velvety now and more like a simple brute. His attractive face changed into an angry mask, prominent eyebrows plunging down hardly.  


“What’s your problem? You think you’re too good for me?” He asked angrily as he made another step towards Sherlock.  


“Stop right there, “Sherlock said calmly, stopping Jack with a raised hand. “I’m really not in the mood for any games tonight, for a change. So just let me go and don’t make a fuss.”  


Jack’s face turned red. “But….”  


“No, I mean it, “Sherlock interrupted, now fully back in power mode. “I really don’t appreciate you molesting me so let’s just forget about that and get on with our evening, alright?” He looked at Jack expectantly and as the other stared at him in amazement he grinned a little, glad he was back to himself again. “Okay, you’re alright with it, I’ve just answered the question for you. Now buzz off, I can’t stand to look at you anymore. In fact, you’re making me sick.”  


Jack just continued to stare at him with obvious fury and confusion on his face, but no word came out of his slightly open mouth.  


Sherlock shrugged and turned around to walk back towards the bar’s entrance. He dropped his head and chuckled quietly to himself, content with how he managed this little problem and feeling quite good. No one could claim he couldn’t hold his own in a fight. Okay, they hadn't fought physically, well not per se but there had been physical contact – he shuddered again when he thought of the other’s man’s nearness and resolved not to think about it anymore when he heard a voice behind him call out to him.  


“Wait! John, wait.”  


He turned and saw Jack jogging towards him, his posture totally different from before. He thought about ignoring the man and just to step into the bar again, but curiosity got the better of him and he stayed put. “What?” He asked with open hostility in his voice.  


Jack stopped in front of him, in fact with a good distance and he lowered his head, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry man, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to come on to you that strong, I'm sorry.”  


He looked up as if he waited for Sherlock to accept his apology. Sherlock was torn though; the man’s posture and face undermined his words, but the apology never reached his eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t really believe you, “he said curtly and turned to the bar’s entrance.  


“Wait.” Jack implored once more. “At least take your beer, you’ve forgotten it and it’s still nearly full.”  


Sherlock sighed and turned again. _Right, the beer._ He needed that or they would charge him for the missing glass and then John would make fun of him and that alone was reason enough for him to accept the full glass from the other man’s hand. He was careful not to let their fingers touch because that would be disgusting.  


So, he snatched his glass from Jack’s hand quickly with a distrustful look, muttered “thanks” and finally entered the bar again, leaving this strange, impolite man behind him.  


“Idiot” he mumbled to himself as he made his way to the counter to order two more glasses of beer for his friends. With the full glasses in his hands, he fought his way through the crowd again and managed to arrive at his table (with still all of the beer in the glasses ) where John and Greg were sitting with their heads stuck together, probably to be able to hear each other.  


“Sherlock! There you are!” He heard Greg shout and he felt a pull at his arm, indicating he should sit down.  


“We were starting to worry, “John shouted as he leaned towards him so he could hear him. “Did you have any trouble?” His face was aflush with the heat and the alcohol in his blood and it was quite endearing, at least to Sherlock.  


“No, no trouble, “he shouted back, placing the full glasses of beer in front of his friends, “only annoying people who cannot take a hint.”  


John and Greg both leaned forward in unison, shouting “What?”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Never mind, “he shouted, a little more loudly now. “Cheers!” And he held up his still full glass of beer, a little thankful this Jack had reminded him to take it back with him, let it clink against his friends’ glasses, and drained half its contents, suddenly thirsty. His friends grinned at him with slightly drunken smiles and Greg shouted: “Great night, isn’t it? I’m glad I suggested it.”  


“Same!” shouted John and he looked at Sherlock in search for confirmation.  


“Same, “Sherlock agreed although he felt a little stupid repeating it, “great night.” And he chugged down the rest of his drink if only to make his friends cheer at him even louder.


	3. Chapter 3

It was approximately fifteen minutes later that Sherlock noticed he was feeling sort of funny. He was hot but the stickiness from the room and the people around him didn’t bother him as much as before. He felt a little drowsy, but also relaxed, his usually so stiff muscles didn’t feel stiff anymore and he was slouched on his chair in a very un-Sherlockian manner.  


_Shortness of breath. Slowly accelerated heart rate. Relaxed muscles. Feeling hot. Feeling…. good._ His mind couldn’t help but analyze the changes in his body, as was his typical pattern. His eyes lit up as he reached a razor-sharp deduction: he was drunk.  


Sherlock chuckled, leaning his torso on the table and resting his chin lazily on his bent elbow. That last full glass had been a little much for him, it seemed. Well, it was too late for regret now.  


“Hey, Sherlock” Greg’s voice piped up, “what’s up with you?”  


Sherlock looked up from his lower position on their table – his head felt really heavy - and saw Greg leaning forward to look at him with a twinkle in his eye, but also a curious face as if he was looking at a peculiar species at the zoo instead of simply a drunk man.  


“Nothing, “Sherlock answered, and his voice slurred just a little bit, of which he was quite proud. “Nothing to see here, no, absolutely not.” He waved his hand in front of his face and closed his eyes as he sensed the beginning of a headache digging its way through his skull.  


He flinched involuntarily when a friendly hand clasped his shoulder. “You’re hammered!” John’s voice suddenly very near his ear was a little too loud for his taste and he groaned, realizing his friend was delighted about the particular situation he was in.  


“Sherlock, I don’t believe it, you’re drunk!” John leaned forward to put himself onto the same level with his friend and Sherlock didn’t mind when he put an affectionate palm on the back of his neck.  


What he did mind was the slightly hysterical giggle escaping John Watson’s mouth.  


He leaned back, shaking John’s hand off in the process, and sat back, resolved to just ignore his friend’s delighted laughter – Greg had now joined in of course – and wait till it had passed. He closed his eyes because he suddenly felt terribly exhausted and maybe this was a good time to bid his still laughing so-called friends goodbye and go home.  


“Okay, okay, so I think it’s time for me to go home, “he said and stood up, swaying slightly.  


“No, no, no, Sherlock, “John said quickly but still with a huge smirk on his face, “we didn’t mean it like that. Come on, sit down, we won’t make fun of you anymore.”  


Sherlock scowled down at his friend who now made a puppy face at him and he couldn’t suppress the sigh escaping his mouth. He just couldn’t be angry with John.  


“Yes!” Greg shouted from the other side of the table. “Our genius is staying!”  


Sherlock smiled at that. Greg could be quite annoying most of the time, but he had proven himself to be loyal and caring. He had covered Sherlock’s back uncountable times and he sensed that the man liked him despite his endless moaning and complaining when Sherlock bustled around on one of his crime scenes.  


He raised both his hands to quiet his friends down as they continued to cheer at him like a bunch of bloody idiots.  


“Alright alright, “he said, a little out of breath, “I’ll stay, but just for another half hour. Then I really must go home ‘cos I’m knackered.”  


Greg cheered even louder but John stood up and leaned into Sherlock’s space cautiously. “Are you alright, Sherlock?” he shouted into his ear. “You never admit when you’re tired, so….” And he looked at Sherlock with his typical worried doctor-face, all the laughter gone from his face. Sherlock’s heart warmed at once and he nodded quickly, a simple motion which made him a little dizzy somehow.  


“Yes, John, “he said, words slurring ever so slightly, and he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Everything’s fine, I’m just a little tired.”  


“Okay, “John said with a hesitant smile and he let himself be pushed back into his chair.  


“I’ll just go to the loo for a minute, “Sherlock announced, and he turned at once to leave.  


“Do you want me to come with you? “John called after him, but Sherlock just waved him off absently without looking back, so John stayed put. He should really stop worrying over Sherlock so much, it was getting ridiculous. Let him go to the restroom by himself, they weren’t some silly teenage girls. He raised his glass at Greg once more and took another sip of his beer.  


///////  


Something was really wrong Sherlock thought as he tried to fight his way once again through the crowd. His vision was unclear, and he was having trouble figuring out which way to go. People were just blurry shapes and the room was somehow spinning. 

He felt beads of cold sweat breaking out on his neck and forehead and his limbs felt like they weighed a ton, threatening to drag him down. And God, he felt hot, too hot, he craved some water and fresh air. He could barely concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.  


As he finally somehow reached the stairs which led to the restrooms he suddenly felt a surge of dizziness overwhelm him and he couldn’t stop his body from falling down, his legs just refused to function – but just before he collided with the solid ground a firm wrist suddenly caught him, supporting his weight so he wouldn’t fall.  


“Hey, hey, careful there!” A voice from somewhere next to him exclaimed.  


He felt himself be pulled up and he couldn’t help at all cause his body was feeling really odd now - as if there were no muscles in it. He also simply had too little strength to manage on his own.  


He staggered and was once again supported by the person next to him, a strange man he managed to note as he painfully and slowly turned his head to the side to look at his saviour.  


“Are you okay?” the bloke asked and Sherlock was able to discover honest concern in his voice although it made his head hurt just to think about such things. He swayed a little more and then finally managed to really look at the other man.  


“I’m sorry, “he said, and you are…?”  


“Ben, “the man said amicably, “I work here.”  


“Ah, “Sherlock mumbled, and he tried to say more, opened his mouth again to ask for help but found himself unable to form any words, let alone a coherent sentence. His tongue was thick and heavy as well as his jaw.  


“Ah there you are, John!” Another strange voice next to him suddenly piped up. Sherlock turned his head in profound confusion but he couldn’t really concentrate on the new face because his legs were starting to fail him again and he shuddered helplessly as he felt strong arms pull him into an unexpected hug which also quite practically prevented him from falling down again.  


“I’ve searched all over for you, John, you worried me!” The strange but also familiar voice sounded somewhere over his head.  


“It’s okay, he’s my friend, “it continued, this time apparently directed at the friendly waiter bloke.  


“Okay, great, so you’ll take care of him?” The nice waiter with a name starting with a B or a P asked. “Because I don’t think he’s well, he should probably go home.”  


Sherlock's mind managed to register the unusual concern of the young man – you wouldn’t find so many people being nice to strangers nowadays – he probably should give this place a great review on Yelp to repay him. But then he lost the thought again as he was lifted into a more upward position by the foreign strong arms holding him.  


“Don’t worry, mate, “the voice of the man with the strong arms said, “I’ll take him home right now.”  


And now there were some alarm bells ringing in Sherlock’s head because this…this couldn’t be right, could it? Who was this bloke claiming he knew him, aiming to take him home?  


There was something he had missed, he realized tiredly. He had to concentrate….  


But he couldn’t, his mind just wouldn’t function and how could that be, he knew he was maybe a little drunk but not that bad. Or maybe he had overestimated himself a little, underestimated the effect six weeks without much sleep and hardly anything to eat would have on his body and maybe that’s why he was getting more drunk even quicker than usual. Yes, yes, that had to be it. How stupid of him.  


Another wave of dizziness washed over him, and he moaned in pain as a feeling like a knife being jammed into his head hit him out of nowhere.  


“Easy, easy there tiger, “the unknown but familiar voice said and the owner of said voice squeezed his shoulder in obvious brotherly affection. “Let’s get you home, eh?”  


He felt himself be turned with the help of the other man’s strong arms.  


“Well, thanks for helping John here, I appreciate it, “he heard the man say, followed by a friendly “No problem, mate” from the nice waiter bloke and then they suddenly moved, or more precisely he was moved by the other man’s arms towards the pub’s exit.  


“Wha- wha’s happenin’?” Sherlock managed to croak out as he tried to resist the man’s strong grip, tried to stop him from dragging him away. “Who’re you? G-get off me.” His voice had returned for a few seconds, although his words slurred heavily now and barely sounded like real words. The other man’s only reaction was a gruff chuckle.  


“You’ll see, mate,” he simply said.  


That’s when it hit Sherlock.  


_Mate._  


That voice.  


It was that bloke from before. He didn’t remember his name anymore, but it was that bloke who had cornered him outside the pub.  


He dug his heels into the ground at once. “N-no, “he said but his voice was failing him again already.  


The man stopped in his tracks and leaned down to push his face right into Sherlock’s while he still supported his weight on his arms and shoulder. “Ah, now you remember me, huh? Took you a while. What, you’re not feeling alright? Pity.”  


He smirked as he watched Sherlock trying to understand what was happening to him, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. “No, you really don’t, I can see that.” He reached out and brushed a sweaty curl out of Sherlock’s face. Then he stroked his cheek with his thumb almost tenderly. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll take care of you.”  


“N-no “Sherlock whispered, tears glistening in his eyes because of the humiliating helplessness he was experiencing. He wanted to get away from this man. He wanted to be strong enough to punch him, to hurt him. He wanted John to be there. God, he _needed_ John to be there.  


“Come on, let’s get outta here and have some fun, “the man pulling him away from John said.  


Sherlock’s body offered no resistance as he was dragged to the pub’s exit, out into the mild October air. He wasn’t even strong enough to scream, so it was in his mind that he let out a long, desperate cry for help which was the last thing it did before it shut down almost completely.

//////////

“What’s wrong, John? You’re practically jumping up and down in your chair and you’re glancing over your shoulder every few seconds. Do you maybe also have to go the loo?”  


Greg looked at his friend with a grin on his face. Typical John, couldn’t be without his best friend for a few minutes and he couldn’t help teasing him for it.  


John flashed a short, fake smile at him without really looking because his eyes were once again drawn to the other side of the room where the pub’s restroom was – although he couldn’t see much because of all the people standing at the pub’s tables. He couldn’t help being a little nervous about the fact that Sherlock was not back yet. Maybe that was due to the fact that his friend had a tendency to maneuver himself into hairy situations which in turn led to him, John, having to realize something had gone wrong in the great detective’s plan and swoop in to rescue him. He and Sherlock had only been friends – and colleagues– for a little over a year but there was a certain dynamic between them. It was as if they had developed a system where both of them exactly knew what the other needed to be done, two parts of one mind, completely in tune with each other.  


Maybe it sounded a little corny, but John appreciated being so in tune with his best friend. They didn’t even need many words, they just understood each other. It was as simple as that. When Sherlock was in danger somewhere, being threatened by mad serial killers or dangerous naked women John somehow knew, and Sherlock knew when John was in peril vice versa.  


As strange as it had been to admit to himself, he was practically living in a sort of relationship with his best friend – completely platonic of course. The amount of time they spent together, the jokes they shared, their almost creepy telepathic capability to read each other’s minds… their chemistry was something special and he wouldn’t miss it for the world. The truth was he loved working with Sherlock, he loved being his best friend and he was happy they had met.  


This night John had truly enjoyed letting go a little with Sherlock and Greg. Eating, drinking, laughing together. The simple joys of being with friends, sharing a nice evening together. They really should be doing this more often because it was totally fun. Even Sherlock had seemed to relax a little and on top of it, he had apparently gotten a little drunk as well. This was very unusual though.  


John knew Sherlock had only drunken two glasses of beer while he and Greg had drunken four. He knew Sherlock had drunken with them to be social, to let him, John, have a nice evening. He had been grateful for that small favour, so he hadn’t called Sherlock out on drinking less than him and Greg. Let him maintain a clear mind, let him maintain his ability to deduce everything around him, from the tiny wrinkles on the waitress’s blouse to the peculiar way the napkins on the table had been folded. He knew Sherlock needed that – analysing his surroundings, knowing everything which was important to know, so he was in control.  


Fifteen Minutes.  


It had been fifteen minutes since Sherlock had left for the loo. He knew exactly because he had checked his watch every two minutes. What was wrong? Could Sherlock have slipped and fallen in the restroom? Maybe he was sick from the alcohol and was vomiting into the toilet right now?  


Another possibility was of course that he had gotten into a fight with one of the other patrons or the staff, insulting them by making inconsiderate remarks he didn’t realize were inconsiderate (although sometimes he did know his remarks were inconsiderate and still he made them). So, it could be that Sherlock was just around in the corner and had gotten into a fight with some bloke determined to break his nose.  


Okay, this had to stop. There were endless possibilities of what could have happened to his friend and John couldn’t bear thinking about it any longer – he needed to go and find out himself. Having made that decision, he got up from his chair at once.  


“I need to check on Sherlock, “he informed Greg, and without waiting for an answer he turned around and started pushing through the crowd.  


“Wait!” Greg followed him swiftly. “I’ll come with, maybe he’s in trouble again.”  


He smirked at John, but John was not in the mood for jokes. Maybe it was true, maybe Sherlock was in trouble and he had waited fifteen long minutes to go check on him.  


_Okay, take a deep breath, it’s highly probable he’s okay and there’s a perfectly rational explanation why he isn’t back yet. Hell, maybe he just went home, wouldn’t be the first time._  


_Whatever._ John bit his lip nervously and shoved some people aside to finally reach the pub’s exit. He looked around but he couldn’t see his friend. He then made his way to the side and down the stairs where he knew the restroom was. The men’s room was completely empty, he checked every stall. They then proceeded to (very quickly) check the women’s restroom – with Sherlock, you never knew. But it was empty too apart from one girl refreshing her lipstick in front of the mirror. At her indignant look at the two men, he apologized quickly and asked if she had seen a tall, lanky man with curly brown hair and high cheekbones. Unfortunately, she hadn’t.  


John’s heartbeat increased at once as he realised that Sherlock was gone. Where could he be? _Damn._  


He rushed back up the stairs, Greg on his heels, and tried to find their waitress. He found her and asked her if she had seen their friend, the one who had only ordered chips. She hadn’t either but when she saw John’s disappointed face she pointed at the counter.  


“Ask Ben if he’s seen him maybe, he works at the counter.”  


John nodded at her gratefully and made his way over to the counter. It took a while until he had young Ben’s attention because there were other people ordering drinks but eventually, he managed to get the bloke's attention.  


“Yes?”  


“Hi, “John shouted, leaning over the counter so that the other man could hear him, “I wondered if you’ve maybe seen our friend. Tall, lanky, curly brown hair, high cheekbones. We’ve searched everywhere in here, but we can’t find him.”  


Ben seemed to think for a moment, then he shrugged and shouted: “Yes, well, there’s been a bloke who matches your description. He left.”  


John froze for a second and then asked, “You’re sure? When?”  


“Well, yes, he stumbled into me a little while ago when I came back from my break and I helped him up. He seemed totally out of it, completely hammered. I was afraid he was going to pass out. But then your other friend appeared and left with him. So, don’t worry, he’s probably taken him home by now.”  


John felt a cold sweat break out on his skin. “Other friend? What other friend?” he asked, trying to suppress the panic in his voice.  


Ben looked at him in confusion. “That tall, blonde guy with the beard. He said he would take care of your friend – John, I think he called him – and helped him get outside. Practically half-carried him out the door.”  


John let out a deep breath and swallowed heavily. Okay, he had been right, there was something wrong. He looked at Greg and knew from his face that he was thinking the same thing.  


He closed his eyes and tried to think. Tried to stay calm, for Sherlock’s sake.  


It seemed someone had kidnapped his friend. For what reasons he didn’t know, of course, there were several options. There were many crazy people out there, maybe someone wanted to take revenge because Sherlock had put one of their relatives into prison. Or maybe they wanted to hold him to ransom: he was quite a famous figure now, maybe someone was just trying to blackmail Mycroft into paying a hefty sum. Or – _oh God_ – could it be Moriarty? Was he back?  


He tried to push his ranting thoughts aside and think clearly. Sherlock needed him now, he couldn’t fail him. So, he had to concentrate. _Think._  


He turned to Ben once again.  


“Could you describe the bloke who helped our friend a little more in detail, please?”  


Ben hesitated but he complied. “Well, he was really tall, and burly as if he went to the gym regularly you know. He had a blue cap on, and I think a blue shirt as well, under his jacket. Ah yes, and he had shoulder-length blonde hair and a full beard. He seemed quite nice and really worried about your friend.”  


John nodded, taking the information in, thinking. The description didn’t match anyone he knew. He looked at Greg who understood what he asked and shook his head.  


“So, I take it you don’t know this bloke?” Ben asked a little nervously. “I’m sorry, I thought he was his friend…”  


John shook his head. “No, it’s fine, don’t worry. Thanks for your help.” He nodded at the man again and ran towards the exit, Greg right behind him.  


The fresh air hit them as soon as they stepped out and John was thankful because they had drunken four or five glasses of beer and they had been a little drunk. Now, though, he felt completely sober. Fear for Sherlock seized him and cleared his body from all the effects the alcohol had had on him. They had to hurry and find Sherlock.  


“Okay, shall we check your flat?” Greg asked, a little breathlessly. “Maybe it was really just a friendly stranger who took pity on him and got him home. It’s not that far.”  


John shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s very likely. Sherlock wouldn’t just let himself be taken away by a stranger, no way. He wouldn’t let himself be “half-carried” by someone he doesn’t know.”  


Greg shrugged. “Well, maybe he was too drunk to care. You’ve seen how he was before he went for the loo, he seemed a little smashed. Maybe he found himself a new friend.”  


John looked at him, hard and Greg shrugged again.  


“That’s just it, Greg, “John said, starting to pace up and down the sidewalk in front of the pub. “How could he have been so drunk? He only drank two glasses of beer, that’s not enough to put him into a state like that.”  


“Well, “Greg chuckled, “he doesn’t drink often, does he? He’s a little lightweight then.”  


John shook his head. “No, Greg, think. Even for someone who doesn’t drink very often that reaction seems a little off. He practically stumbled away from our table and he wasn’t feeling so well before when he was still with us. Something was wrong with him.”  


“You mean…?” Greg asked.  


“I think he was drugged.” John swallowed heavily as his mind had finally drawn the unavoidable conclusion. “Somebody put something in his drink and that’s why he was so out of it. It was probably the bloke who helped him out of here, the one who’s taken him who knows where!”  


Greg raised his hands, as John’s pacing was turning more hectically. He was practically vibrating with sudden fury. “Calm down, John, we’re going to find him.”  


“Ahh, dammit!” John yelled suddenly, causing Greg to flinch in surprise. “How could this have happened? God, why does this always happen to him?”  


He fumed a little longer as he paced back and forth, and all Greg could do was watch him helplessly.  


All of a sudden, John stopped pacing, pulled his phone out of his jacket, and dialled a number. “Didn’t even think to call him… stupid,” he muttered to himself, but Sherlock didn’t answer, and John groaned impatiently. He then quickly dialled another number, this time his call was picked up.  


“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” He tried to speak normally, to not let the panic seep through. “Yes, yes, I know it’s very late, I’m sorry. Yes, I’m aware I’ve woken you up, I apologize….Could you do me a favour and go into our apartment and see if Sherlock’s there? Yes, it’s important!”  


He bit his lip nervously while he waited and then sighed in exasperation at Mrs. Hudson’s reply: “Okay, thank you anyway. No, I don’t know where he is. I have to find him now, so take care.”  


“Well, it was worth a try, “Greg said, obviously trying to comfort him but John didn’t react. He was much too worried about Sherlock now, about what was happening right now.  


“I’ll call reinforcements then, “Greg said with a sigh, and he pulled out his phone. All John could do was nod. Hopefully, it was not too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warnings for sexual abuse

_Dizzy. Tired. Can’t think. Can‘t …. Move my legs. Wh-where am I? What’s happening. I am … moving? Head…. hurts. Who….? Where…?_  


Sherlock opened his eyes again, or rather he tried to open his eyes again. But his eyelids were so heavy, it seemed he could not muster up the strength to do it. His entire body was a heavy weight he couldn’t possibly hold up and his mind screamed at him to just go to sleep, to rest. He was inclined to just give in, he was so incredibly exhausted. As if he hadn’t slept in weeks. He desperately needed rest. Just close his eyes for a bit. _Rest. Sleep. Tired…_  


_No!_  


His eyes jerked open as he suddenly remembered where he was. The pub. That bloke who had suddenly appeared and dragged him away. That bloke who was…. still dragging him away apparently.  


The man’s arm was wrapped around his back holding him upright while he tugged Sherlock with him down the street. Apparently, Sherlock had lost consciousness for a few seconds… _minutes?_ But now his utterly confused mind struggled to cope with the deduction that he was still in the clutches of this strange, creepy bloke who was whisking him away. While he, Sherlock, apparently was completely unable to do anything about it.  


He mustered up all his strength to try to move his arms and indeed managed to shove at the arm holding him upright. The other man was so surprised by his weak but sudden movement that he let go of him for a second, which resulted in Sherlock tumbling onto the hard ground unceremoniously like a sack of potatoes. It hurt because his muddled brain failed to order his hands to break his fall, so he landed on his left cheek with a soft _whack.  
_

__

__

“Whoa, what you’re doing, darling?” he heard a rough voice above him, sounding amused, “trying to hurt yourself?”  


The man squatted next to him, leaning over his face to tenderly stroke Sherlock’s hair.  


“Ts ts, don’t do that.” He lifted Sherlock’s head up from the pavement with the left hand and stroked over his freshly bruised cheek with his right thumb. “Don’t ruin your beautiful face, “he mumbled, leaning forward a little more and now his lips were only inches away from Sherlock’s face. “I still need it.”  


He suddenly grabbed Sherlock by the hips, gripping into his flesh brutally with his fingers. It hurt and Sherlock’s body surged upwards, his eyes pressed shut in pain. He fumbled at the hands hurting him, trying desperately to get them off. He failed and his head fell back helplessly, a strangled sob escaping his throat.  


“N-no, “he whispered frantically, “d-don’ wanthis.” His voice was hoarse and pitifully weak. It didn’t sound like him at all.  


The other man’s eyes shone with open excitement. He licked his lips as he stared at Sherlock’s mouth hungrily. He absently brushed his hand through Sherlock’s curls and tilted his head to the side as if he pondered something. Then he looked at his watch.  


“Maybe not yet you don’t. But give It a little more time and you’ll love what I’m going to do to you. Now, come on.”  


Before Sherlock could try to bundle up more strength to protest the man grabbed him under his arms and pulled him up. As soon as he was standing Sherlock’s knees gave in and he would have fallen again if the other man had not wrapped his arm once again around him to support him. Sherlock didn’t want to be held like this, this intimately as if they were lovers, but of course, he was powerless to do anything about it. His whole body was trembling although he was hot, it felt as if a fire was burning through his veins, as if he had a fever. Still, he shivered, and he couldn’t prevent the low moan escaping his mouth as his mind still fought against this helplessness.  


The man holding him groaned at the sound. “You’re already making such beautiful noises, darling. I can hardly control myself here. Let’s go.”  


Sherlock felt himself once again moved against his will, felt his body dragged down the street by this man and he just gave up. He couldn’t fight it, he just couldn’t. There was a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to conjure up a plan on how to escape, to take in his surroundings, and make a deduction on how he could find help. But he just couldn’t heed it. He was tired. _So goddamn tired.  
_

__

__

They made their way down the abandoned streets. It was around midnight and pitch-black outside, the only lights provided by the streetlamps hanging over them. There weren’t any sounds except for Sherlock’s heavy breathing. Even though he was practically carried by the other man it was exhausting to him and he just wanted to rest. His eyelids were drooping but a little part of his mind forbid him to give in to unconsciousness again, it told him to stay alert at least a little bit for as long as he could.  


Suddenly, they made a sharp turn to the right and though Sherlock’s eyes were barely open he managed to make out a few blurry objects appearing at their sides …. _Trees …. lots of ‘em…. park?_  


He was on the verge of unconsciousness again when he was suddenly dropped onto the ground. It felt different … why? _Soft…damp…. grass…._  


He lay there on the grass, barely conscious, and realized slowly that there was almost no light around them. No sounds, no soul in sight. Not that he could see a lot. His tired eyes were failing him and there were black spots in his vision.  


Apparently, they had reached their destination, and although he was completely unable to make a deduction as to why he was here right now, Sherlock was able to feel terror creeping up inside him. He tried once more to move his arms and legs, to get his body to obey him, but it was futile, and his head lolled back into the soft, wet grass.  


“You ready for some fun?” the man’s rough voice asked, and dread filled Sherlock once again.  


He registered a body hovering over him and suddenly there were hands stroking his arms, stroking his chest, stroking his stomach. His already trembling body began to shake violently as the hands slipped under his shirt and began fondling his bare skin.  


“N-no, “he whispered, “p-pleeease….” That’s all he managed to croak out and the sudden fear enabled him to open his eyes a little wider to see his attacker kneeling over his body. The man’s face was flushed with excitement and his mouth was hanging slightly open. He was licking his lips as he leaned down further to linger over Sherlock’s face.  


“Don't play coy with me, gorgeous, “the man groaned, "bet you're already gagging for it, aren't you?" He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck to suck at the cold skin there. Sherlock flinched violently. His heart was beating so hard in his chest it felt as if it would burst any second. Painfully slow he managed to raise his right hand a little, his intention to push the man away...but the effort was too much, and it fell to his side again uselessly.  


“You smell so good, darling, I could just eat you up." The man's administrations were getting more and more aggressive, more demanding. His hands roamed all over Sherlock’s body as his mouth travelled upwards, from neck to chin to mouth.  


“The things I'm going to do to that mouth...” He traced the lines of Sherlock’s lips with his fingertips and his breath was hot on Sherlock’s skin, smelling of alcohol and sudden nausea overwhelmed Sherlock, it was too much. He tried to turn his head to the side.  


“No, no, darling, come on, “his attacker scolded him sharply, “I’ve waited all night for this.” He viciously grasped Sherlock’s jaw, holding him still. A single tear escaped Sherlock’s eye as the man leaned forward to kiss him on his lips. He processed to greedily suck and nibble at his lips, devouring his mouth as if he wanted to mark his territory. After a few terrifying seconds, his tongue demanded entrance into his mouth but somehow Sherlock still managed to deny him that. Out of nowhere, the man bit him in the lower lip, drawing blood, and Sherlock opened his mouth in shock and pain. He felt something inside him die when the man’s tongue darted forward without mercy to lick inside his mouth. The man growled possessively and suddenly there was a hand on his throat, strangling him.  


The pressure was too much, and he couldn’t breathe.  


“N-no, “he whispered again but it so weak it was barely audible, and he felt his body slipping away further. His mind still screamed at him to get it together, to defend himself against his body’s intrusion, but it was getting quieter by every second until he couldn’t hear it anymore.  


He couldn’t do anything. He could just lay there and take whatever that man wanted to do to him. _Oh God, John, please help me. I need you, John. Don’t let him hurt me._  


He felt the attacker tug at the buttons of his trousers and more silent tears slid down his cheeks as he felt them being pulled down. 

/////

“John, calm down, we’re gonna find him but it’s not gonna help him if you collapse from hyperventilating.”  


Greg had called reinforcements and while they were waiting for his colleagues, he tried to calm his friend down but to no avail. John was furious. With himself for neglecting to realize something had been wrong with Sherlock. With Sherlock for getting himself into that kind of situation again. With the unknown kidnapper that he had chosen Sherlock as his target. Damn, being famous only had disadvantages for Sherlock, they shouldn’t have made a media spectacle out of themselves, then they wouldn’t be in the situation they were now in.  


After pacing and fuming a little more, John suddenly stopped and looked at Greg: “Do you think they could still be in the area?”  


Greg thought for a moment. “Well, yes could be. We don’t really know Sherlock’s been kidnapped, maybe he was just robbed. They could still be nearby.”  


“Well, what are we waiting for then, “asked John, suddenly restless. “Let’s spread out and go look for them!”  


Just then two police cars finally arrived at the pub and Greg’s colleagues joined them. While John was practically on the verge of just running off to look for his friend Greg very quickly updated the two police officers about the situation and together they decided to split up into two directions, John and Greg would go South, the other two North.  


John couldn’t wait any longer, he turned and jogged down the street. Even if they didn’t find Sherlock maybe they would find clues as to where to find him or who had taken him. He barely noticed Greg joining him at his side and together they wandered down the street, looking right and left as well as on the ground. Maybe they’d find a button from Sherlock’s coat or his scarf or maybe… _a drop of blood_ …. John closed his eyes for a moment. _Stop. You’re going crazy. Concentrate._ He took a deep breath and continued.  


There weren’t any people they could ask if they had seen anything. The streets were dark and empty, and hopelessness crept into John’s heart. They’d never find him at this rate. London was huge, and they had probably disappeared into a cab or a car and driven off.  


Was it really a good idea to stumble around aimlessly here trying to look for the needle in the haystack? But what else could he do?  


Well, there was one thing …. He could contact a certain someone who had the power and the means to really look for a missing person. But John hesitated, shaking his head as he crossed a road and jogged down another street. No, he would wait for now, he wanted to make sure himself that Sherlock wasn’t in the area then he could still contact Mycroft.  


“John!”  


At Greg’s call John looked across to the parallel street and saw Greg jerking his head forward. John followed his gaze and saw two blokes standing at the corner of the street, sharing a peaceful smoke, chattering.  


John crossed the street at once and jogged up to the two men.  


“Hi, I’m sorry, “he greeted them a little out of breath. “Have you maybe seen two men? One of them tall, skinny, curly hair? About maybe ten minutes ago?”  


The men looked at him warily and didn’t reply at once.  


John sighed impatiently. “I’m sorry, I really have to know. One of them’s my friend and it’s really important we find him.”  


“Well, yeah, “one of the guys said slowly, “there were two blokes actually. They were on the other side of the road and one of them half-carried the other, we thought because he was drunk. He barely had his eyes open.”  


John’s heart rate picked up immediately. “Okay, that’s good, can you tell me where they went?”  


The man pointed forward. “Yeah, they made a turn right there. There’s a small path leading to St. Edward’s park. I think they went there. Yeah, about ten minutes ago or maybe a little more.”  


John run off without thinking. Greg thanked the men and ran after John while he quickly called his colleagues to order them to their location.  


John quickly found the little path and found himself in said St. Edward’s Park. It seemed totally abandoned, he didn’t hear any sounds.  


He resumed running, always looking left and right, growing more impatient by the second. Sherlock had been here just a few minutes ago! He had to find him before he was whisked away and kidnapped in earnest. _Hold on, Sherlock, I’m coming for you._  


On a crossroad he made a quick decision and followed the smaller, darker path instead of the brightly lit one. After following that path for a while, he decided to leave the path on instinct and just walk cross-country, through the open meadow. There weren’t as many lamps here, if Sherlock had just been robbed by this guy, maybe he had left him here?  


He stumbled around, a little lost, not even sure if Greg or the others were behind him anymore. It was dark and he couldn’t see a lot. He didn’t know what to do next. He was completely at a loss with how to proceed and he bit into his fist in frustration.  


That’s when he heard a sound. A voice from somewhere to his right.  


Carefully, slowly, he crept through the grass to search for the voice’s origin. It was a male voice, deep and husky. He couldn’t make out the words the voice said so he continued going until he found himself in front of a row of thick, thorny bushes.  


“Oh yes, gorgeous, those noises really turn me on, “a voice suddenly not so far away was saying.  


John froze and pondered. Was he on the verge of interrupting a couple having wild Saturday evening sex in the park? He hesitated.  


“Now come on, baby, don’t be that way, “the voice continued, and to John, it sounded like a threat. “We could have avoided this, but you left me no choice. Stop wriggling, it won’t do you any good.”  


_That doesn’t sound right._  


John’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest as he slowly made his way towards the bushes.  


There was the sound of hard breathing and then the sound of a zipper being pulled down. John hesitated once again. He didn’t want to disturb these people, maybe they were just into some kinky stuff … but instinct told him to go on.  


“So beautiful for me. So hot. I have something nice for you too, baby, “the voice said and that’s when John heard a second voice, a voice he recognized in an instant even if it didn’t sound like it normally would.  


“N-no, p-pleeeease …. s-stooop.”  


John froze. _Sherlock! It’s him!_  


Reacting instantly, he sprang into action and ran around the thick bushes right in front of him to go help his friend. What he saw right now in front of him made him freeze at once.  


There on the ground a few metres away lay Sherlock, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, his curls were hanging to the side. There were tears on his cheeks and he was shaking all over and moaning, although very weakly, John could barely hear him.  


A man was lying on top of him. He was rutting against Sherlock, groping him under his shirt and parting his legs with his thigh. Both of them were almost naked from the waist down, clad only in their underwear, their trousers crumpled in a heap at the side. The man’s face was buried in Sherlock’s neck and he was sucking viciously at the exposed pale flesh.  


John’s world collapsed. He just stood there, staring at the scene in front of him, unnoticed by the two men in front of him going at it.  


For a split second he felt betrayed.  


For a split second he thought Sherlock had decided to discover his hitherto dormant sexuality exactly tonight and go have fun with a stranger.  


For a split second he wanted to hit Sherlock.  


But then Sherlock sobbed and he realized he got it all wrong. Sherlock didn’t want this. Sherlock had been dragged off by this man, apparently drugged and totally helpless.  


Sherlock was moaning and trying to get that man off of him but was unable to. He was crying.  


_Crying, for Christ's sake._  


Just as he had figured that out a bloodcurdling scream filled the air. John flinched so hard, he nearly collapsed on the spot from terror. He looked and saw what made his best friend scream like that: His attacker was biting him. He was biting him into the shoulder  


and John saw red.  


In an instant he was on the man and threw him off of Sherlock with all his might. He saw shock and fear in the other man’s face, he was lying on his back with his hands up defensively and for a split second, John just stood over him.  


But then his eyes were drawn to the man’s crotch and he saw the obvious erection straining the man’s pants and without thinking he pounced upon him, a growl rising from deep within his throat.  


“You bastard!” he screamed as he punched him in the face, hard. By doing so he collapsed on the man and before he processed what he was doing he raised his fist again to throw another punch. And another. And another. He was screaming maybe while punching or maybe he wasn’t.  


John Watson didn’t care.  


The man beneath him didn’t move anymore and John Watson didn’t care.  


_Punch._  


“John!”  


_Punch._  


“John, for God’s sake!”  


Someone was calling him, but he didn’t care.  


_Punch._  


“Help me get him off!”  


Suddenly there were hands pulling him up under his arms, away from the body beneath him.  


“Nooo!” he screamed, his voice already hoarse from all the screaming.  


Someone held him from behind, locking his arms in a tight grip so he couldn’t use them anymore.  


He kicked out, he screamed some more, he shook his head from side to side in raging frustration, but it was useless and after a few moments he gave up.  


“Come on, John, “the voice he now recognized as Greg’s implored, breathing heavily, “calm down. Please. It’s over.”  


John closed his eyes and tried frantically to push his anger away. His breathing slowed down.  


“Can I let you go now?” Greg asked.  


He nodded and Greg released him.  


The anger was gone now, and John stumbled a little, as the adrenaline left his body.  


After a few seconds in which it felt as if his mind was completely lost in grateful nothingness, he snapped to attention again, as he remembered.  


_Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. So I'm hoping that wasn't too bad. I'm sorry for hurting Sherlock so much, but the more the hurt the better the comfort, right? I worked really hard on this chapter, trying to get it right, so I hope you like it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing of medical procedures, so everything I've used here is the result of simple Internet research. So there may be mistakes in that area, sorry if that is the case.

John swayed a little as he turned around, away from the man he had just beaten into a bloody pulp. His eyes searched frantically and at once found who he was looking for: Sherlock.  


Sherlock who was still lying on the ground a few meters away from him, shaking and whimpering softly. Sherlock, who looked so damn vulnerable with his naked quivering legs and his shirt torn open.  


“Sherlock!”  


John took a few, quick strides forward and practically fell into the grass next to his friend. At once, he put a shaky hand on Sherlock’s head, cupping his face tenderly as he anxiously tried to avoid hurting him any further.  


“Sherlock, it’s me, John, “he choked out, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. He took Sherlock’s hand in his and stroked his cheek – the unhurt one – with his other hand. “I’m here now, Sherlock. Can you hear me?”  


“J-John?” It was just a whisper, barely audible. “N-need you.” Talking seemed to exhaust Sherlock even more and his head lolled to the side, his eyes pressed shut as if he was in pain.  


Greg appeared next to them. He was pale and he looked distressed.  


“An ambulance is on its way, “he said hoarsely. “How is he?”  


John blinked. Yes, of course, he should examine Sherlock, take a look at his injuries. The need to comfort his friend had been greater than the need to be a doctor.  


He let out a shaky breath and kneeled over Sherlock, his left hand never letting go of his friend’s. It felt wrong to touch his friend in this state so soon after…. his assault. After a few quick movements, he reached a first quick conclusion.  


“Accelerated heart rate, pupils are dilated. He’s sweating and he’s hot to the touch, so maybe slightly elevated body temperature. He’s definitely been drugged, probably with something like Rohypnol or another typical date-rape drug. Apart from that, there is a bite in his shoulder which should be looked at because it’s bleeding and…” His voice broke and he stifled a sob as he covered his eyes with his hand.  


“I’m sorry, “he whispered. He let his head drop until it was just over Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder, touching it. “I’m sorry I wasn’t….”  


He couldn’t possibly speak anymore and with a sudden need, he pulled his trembling best friend up and into his arms, pressing him against his chest. He brushed his wet curls out of his face and wiped the tears away from his cheek. “Shhh, shhhh, calm down, Sherlock, shhhh….” He brought his head down to softly kiss Sherlock on the temple and he held him firmly as Sherlock was still shivering and moaning in his arms, still fighting unconsciousness.  


He didn’t seem to understand what was going on, where he was, but he was obviously scared and that alone broke John’s heart. To see the usually so confident and vibrant Sherlock in a state like that, so helpless, so fragile – it truly shook him to the core.  


He ignored everything around them and just concentrated on holding his friend. Hoping that his presence, his body warmth would provide Sherlock with some much-needed comfort. It seemed to help a least a little because Sherlock’s breathing calmed down considerably, and his crying turned from desperate sobs to quiet intermittent hitches in his breathing.  


The sirens of an ambulance arriving somewhere near broke through the silent night very loudly and Sherlock’s eyes opened in a sudden panic again.  


“No, no, Sherlock, “John said at once, and he squeezed his hand in reassurance, “it’s just the ambulance. It’s okay.”  


“J-John, I- I cannt, I juscannnt….” The words out of Sherlock's mouth slurred so badly he could hardly comprehend them. The drug in his system was taking its effect on him more clearly now.  


“Shhhh, shhhh, I’m here, I’m here, don’t worry, “he soothed as he continued to stroke the side of Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s eyes closed again.  


The paramedic arrived on the scene and a slender brunette woman quickly kneeled next to John to take a look at Sherlock.  


“Sir, can you hear me? “she asked as she took Sherlock’s pulse and checked his breathing while he was still in John’s arms. “Can you tell me your name?” She shone a penlight into his eyes.  


As she touched him, Sherlock flinched violently and tried to get away from her touch at once, making him push backwards against John’s chest. “N-noooo, please, noooo ….” And he sobbed again, shaking his head frantically.  


“It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s just the paramedic, “John said as he tried to calm Sherlock down by stroking his arms, “She just needs to see if you’re okay.”  


But Sherlock wouldn’t calm down and fresh tears flowed from his eyes as he tried to shield himself from being touched.  


John looked at her imploringly. “Please, I don’t think it’s necessary. I’ve already taken a look at him, I’m his doctor, Dr. Watson.”  


As she raised an eyebrow at him skeptically, he hastened to explain Sherlock’s status to her: “He’s been drugged, probably with flunitrazepam, possibly Rohypnol. His heart rate is rather elevated. I think his blood pressure is a bit on the lower end and he’s on the verge of unconsciousness. He’s hot, and he is sweating. There’s a bite mark on his shoulder which needs tending to.”  


He took a quick breath and noticed her slightly looking at him in astonishment.  


“He’s been sexually assaulted.”  


“Well, then we need to get him to the hospital and get a rape kit done, “she said matter-of-factly.  


At this moment Sherlock shook his head from side to side, a low whine escaping his sore throat. “J-Joooohn…”  


John swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed Sherlock’s hand once again in silent reassurance.  


“I’d like to take him home. I can take care of him there.”  


“What?” the woman said, “no way, he needs to be in a hospital.”  


“Look, “John said quickly, “as I said, I’m a doctor and I have some experience with these kinds of things. I’ll closely monitor him, and I’ll drive him to the hospital at once should his symptoms deteriorate. He’ll probably fall asleep soon, the drug’s been in his system for at least forty minutes now. I will take care of the bite wound at home, I have everything I need for it.”  


She didn’t say anything but looked at John, clearly pondering what to do.  


“Please, “he said softly, “he hates hospitals and after what happened to him, he needs to wake up somewhere he can feel safe, and that place is home.”  


She sighed. “I don’t like it. What about the rape kit? It’s important to collect evidence for sexual assault as quickly as possible, you must know that.”  


“Well, yes, “John said, “but you know he needs to sign a consent form for that, and he’ll not do that soon because he’ll be asleep for a while. I’ll ask him if he wants to get one done as soon as he’s awake.” He very much doubted Sherlock would want to have one done but he didn’t say so. It wasn’t important right now.  


“Still, I’m responsible for his health and I fear I have to insist he’s coming with us, “she said stubbornly.  


John wanted to scream with frustration when suddenly his phone rang. He chose to ignore it. He had to convince that woman he would take Sherlock home, he wouldn’t let him wake up in a sterile hospital, in that vulnerable state he was in right now.  


“John?” Greg approached him and held his phone out to him. “It’s for you.”  


Irritated, John grabbed the phone and barked into it: “What?”  


“John, it’s me, Mycroft. I’ve been informed my brother has run into some trouble again.” The sound of that unmistakable soft voice caused John’s hairs on his arms to rise up and he sighed impatiently: “Yes, you could call it that, “he gritted out, “he’s been sexually assaulted, Mycroft.”  


“Oh.”  


There was silence on the other end and John sensed another bout of fury creeping up his neck, so he quickly said: “I’ve no time right now. The ambulance is here and they want to take him to the hospital although I want to treat him at home. I have to convince them…”  


“Let me talk to them.”  


“What?”  


“Let me talk to the chief paramedic, “came the calm reply.  


Bewildered, John handed Greg’s phone to the woman and looked on as she answered the call. “Yes, hello …. well I couldn’t examine him completely, …. Yes, he seems relatively stable, …. yes, it’s possible, I guess …. well, okay then.” She got off the phone, handed it back to Greg, and looked at John with open frustration.  


“Well, it seems you’ll have it your way then, Dr. Watson. I just hope for his sake this is a good idea.”  


She left them alone. John sent a quick silent prayer of thanks to Mycroft wherever he was and looked back at Sherlock. He had quieted down and was only moaning a little now, soft little whines escaping his throat and he was still trembling. _I’ve got to get him home quickly._  


He stood up to talk with the paramedic again. He needed them to drive him and Sherlock home. He would also ask them to take a blood sample from Sherlock, so they would get some detailed information on which drug Sherlock’s attacker had used on him and what dosage. He would ask nicely so as not to irritate that poor woman any further. Not that it would be a problem getting all these things, he had Mycroft on his side now.  


A few minutes later and they were laying Sherlock gently on a stretcher, carrying him to the ambulance car. John held his hand the whole time, his best friend was still in the grip of the drugs, lashing out feebly at the unwanted hands touching his body. 

John tried to soothe him by stroking his head.  


Sherlock’s attacker was about to be taken to the hospital in another ambulance. He was hurt pretty badly and had to be intubated right in front of him, but John didn’t care. That monster could die for what he had done to Sherlock, he couldn’t care less.  


Greg looked at him with a worried face before John got into the ambulance after Sherlock on the stretcher. “You know that technically, I’d have to arrest you, right?” he asked.  


“Greg, I’m sorry, I really have to take care of Sherlock now, “John said impatiently, he wasn’t even looking at Greg, instead, he frantically looked after Sherlock in the ambulance car.  


“Okay, alright, I’ll let it slide for now, “Greg said, rubbing a hand over his face wearily, “just go, we’ll sort it out later.”  


John simply nodded and got into the ambulance. His mind couldn’t focus on thanking his friend. He just wanted to be at Sherlock’s side again. He couldn’t bear to be away from him for just one second, so he quickly took a seat beside Sherlock’s stretcher and grabbed his hand again.  


Sherlock was nearly unconscious now. His eyes were closed, although rapid movements under his eyelids revealed his mind’s unwillingness to calm down. He was still trembling all over and his head occasionally jerked from side to side. He was incredibly pale and there were beads of sweat running down the side of his face, so John took a tissue out of his pocket to wipe them away in a few soothing, soft motions.  


As the ambulance started to drive a paramedic, not the woman from before, she was on the other car tending to Sherlock’s attacker, looked at John cautiously as he held up a needle. Apparently, he had been warned about him.  


“I’m sorry, sir, I’d like to collect the blood sample now, if I may.”  


John nodded and he leaned forward to quietly talk into Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, we have to take a blood sample from you now, I fear its gonna sting for a second. But I’m right here, it’s only gonna last a second, okay?”  


Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him at all, he simply whimpered and bit his lip. The lip which also had to be cleaned as it had been split, John noticed once again with anger rising within his throat, but he quickly swallowed it down again.  


He nodded at the paramedic who first cleaned a spot on Sherlock’s exposed arm and then plunged the needle into his vein. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand a little more as his friend winced at the intrusion.  


After taking a couple of samples of blood the paramedic looked at John again. “Could I at least take his blood pressure?”  


John thought for a moment, then nodded. Sherlock didn’t seem to register the foreign hands touching him as much as before and he was proven right when Sherlock barely reacted to the man administering the blood pressure monitor to his arm. He would probably fall unconscious very soon.  


“It’s low. 90 to 50, “the paramedic said with a frown. “You’ll need to check on him regularly.”  


“Yes, I know, “John said with a shaky sigh. He was anxious to get home, to put Sherlock to bed, and get him some much-needed rest.  


The ride didn’t last long, and soon they pulled up at their flat in 221B Baker Street. At John’s request, they carried Sherlock upstairs on the stretcher and into his bedroom. They laid him onto his bed carefully and the paramedic asked if there was anything John needed before they left.  


“Could you please inform me when his blood test results come back?” He gave them his phone number and they left without further ado. Although they weren’t alone, naturally the commotion had caused Mrs. Hudson to come out of her flat and now she was standing at the room’s threshold with her hands on her mouth, totally shocked at the sight of Sherlock lying in his bed in the state he was in.  


“Oh God, John, “she whispered, “what happened? What did they do to him?”  


John felt a surge of compassion for her, she must have been worried out of her mind since he had called her earlier that night. He also felt gratitude for having another one of Sherlock's friends nearby and feel the same pain he felt, feel the same concern he had for him.  


Nevertheless, he said: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I can’t talk about it right now. All I can say is that he’s been assaulted tonight, and he needs rest, quite urgently. So, would you please leave us now? I’ll take care of him, I promise.”  


She stared at him with wide eyes for a moment. Then she nodded, turned, and left without saying another word.  


Suddenly it was quiet, and John just stood there next to Sherlock’s bed, just staring at the ground.  


He needed to calm down for a second. Sherlock was in a bad way and he had to take care of him, but he just needed one second to simply …. _breathe_.  


He closed his eyes and concentrated on just breathing, getting his heart rate down. Sherlock was out of immediate danger and he needed him now, so he had to pull himself together and be there for him.  


He opened his eyes again and quickly sat down beside Sherlock. He lay there with his shirt still open, his legs wrapped in a wool blanket one of the paramedics had covered his trembling naked legs with.  


He looked so damn vulnerable lying there like that. A single sob escaped John’s throat and his hand quickly flew to his mouth in a vain attempt to restrain it. He took Sherlock’s still trembling hand into his and stroked it softly with his thumb. Sherlock was still whimpering and moaning very softly so John acted on instinct and lay down next to him.  


“Come here, love, “he whispered, and he gently positioned Sherlock’s head on his chest. Sherlock moaned softly and shifted to his side, curling into himself. John started stroking his friend’s hair slowly, started making soothing noises so that Sherlock would finally fall asleep.  


“J-Jooohn, “was the last thing Sherlock whispered after a few minutes of silent fidgeting. Then he was quiet, though his body continued to tremble. John pulled him closer to his own body to give him more comfort and it seemed to help. Sherlock’s breathing slowed down and eventually, he was completely still. He had finally fallen asleep.  


For a long time, they just lay there together in the darkness, the room slightly illuminated by the light of the moon shining through the window. John’s pulse was still a little elevated and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. He tried to concentrate on his friend’s body next to him, curled into him, seeking warmth and comfort from him. He softly pressed a kiss into the damp messy curls and closed his eyes, stroking Sherlock’s head.  


His friend needed his comforting touch, but he needed it, too. He needed to feel Sherlock next to him so that he knew that he was safe right now, that he was okay. Nobody wasn’t there to hurt him anymore and John was there to protect him from nightmares or anything else disturbing his sleep. He would stay with him for as long as he slept and he wouldn’t let him out of his sight for just one minute, he vowed to himself. _Damn, calm down, John, he’s safe now. It’s over_.  


_But it’s not over. He’s been hurt and he won’t forget that so soon. He’s going to hurt so much, knowing what’s happened to him…._  


John pressed his fingers into his eyes and shook his head. He had to try and not concentrate on that right now. He would take the obstacles as they’d come. For now, he had to make sure Sherlock was okay.  


Very carefully, he removed Sherlock’s head from his chest and laid him down onto the soft mattress. He got up from the bed and looked at Sherlock: he hadn’t moved and was still sleeping, looking fragile and lost laying there alone and curled up into himself.  


“I’ll be right back, Sherlock, I promise, “John said quietly.  


As soon as he left the room, his medical instinct kicked in and he quickly went into the bathroom they shared to grab everything he needed from his emergency cupboard. There he had stored quite an impressive stock of general medicine, something he had deemed necessary when one lived together with the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, prone to injuring himself while on a case.  


He grabbed some bandages, a thermometer, as well as a small bowl with warm water, and two clean cloths. From the fridge, he grabbed a small bottle of water. This took him just over forty seconds and he almost stumbled in his haste to get back to Sherlock.  


He sat back onto the bed and gently pulled Sherlock back onto his back again. Sherlock didn’t stir at all, completely unconscious now. _Thank God for that._  


John swallowed heavily as he began his task. He began by taking off Sherlock’s torn and bloody shirt. Again, Sherlock didn’t react as John very softly lifted his torso up to pull the shirt from his arms and threw it onto the ground next to the bed. He looked at Sherlock's upper body and couldn’t suppress the small curse leaving his lips. _Goddamn that man._  


There were love bites and angry-looking bite marks everywhere on Sherlock’s throat, chest and shoulders. It was a horrible sight and John had to look away for a second, his right fist clenched tightly into the bedsheets. After a minute he looked again and that’s when he saw the faint bruises on Sherlock’s throat. There was no doubt, he had been strangled by his attacker, so hard that there were marks to prove it.  


John closed his eyes again and he had to count to twenty to regain his composure.  


_Pull yourself together, dammit. For Sherlock, he needs you._  


So, he inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, calming down slowly. He took one of the cloths, immersed it into the warm water, and began to clean the bite mark on Sherlock’s shoulder, the physical injury he worried about the most. Bite wounds could, when more than superficial, become infected and in worst cases cause permanent damage. Very carefully John rinsed out the wound and cleaned it thoroughly, then he bandaged it. He would have to take a look at it first thing in the morning to see if there was an infection. He would have to ask Sherlock when he last had had a Tetanus shot and naturally his blood would have to be tested for HIV and other possible viral infections.  


He then cleaned Sherlock’s split lip and washed away the blood on his face and neck. He slipped the thermometer into Sherlock’s mouth and was relieved when the result was 37.2, which was okay. _Well, for now at least._  


He wiped the remaining sweat from Sherlock’s face and laid a cool wet cloth on his forehead. Even if he wasn’t conscious, maybe it would help him sleep more peacefully.  


With a sigh he looked at his handiwork. He had taken care of Sherlock’s wounds and there was little else he could do for now. Well, there was one thing.  


He got up and fetched some clean clothes from Sherlock’s wardrobe, just a T-Shirt and some loose pants (although he had to dig a little to find these items, Sherlock really owned a lot of dress shirts and pants).  


He gently lifted Sherlock’s legs and pulled the wool blanket from his legs. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw the scratch marks on Sherlock’s hips he hadn’t seen before. Ignoring his once-again swelling anger he made quick work of putting the pants onto his sleeping friend, followed by the shirt. Sherlock was a dead weight in his arms and his head lolled to the side with every movement.  


Finally, John was finished, and he quickly brought the things he had needed away when he heard the phone in his pocket made a noise, indicating he had received a text message.  


_Is he okay? Are you okay? I can come by if you like. Do you need anything? Greg_  


Quickly, he texted back. _He’s asleep now, I’ll have to monitor him closely tonight to make sure he’s okay. Thanks, maybe come by tomorrow morning? John_  


Even if he didn’t know if it was too soon, Sherlock would need to make a statement. He just hoped he would be up for it, but by having Greg come here, their friend, the probability was higher, that Sherlock would talk to him here, rather than at the police station. At least, that’s what he thought.  


_Okay, will do. See you tomorrow. And John, I’m really sorry about what happened. Greg_  


_Me, too, Greg, me too. See you tomorrow. John._  


As soon as he had sent the last text his phone lit up again, this time he was being called. By Mycroft. No, he couldn’t deal with him right now.  


He waited for the call to end then he texted quickly.  


_I’m sorry, I have to take care of Sherlock right now. He’s sleeping and he’s okay for now. I’ll call you tomorrow for an update. John_  


At once, he got a reply.  


_Fine. You’ll be under surveillance the whole night. Talk to you tomorrow. MH_  


He snorted. Of course, Mycroft would put them under surveillance, this was his way of taking control of the situation. Only, what good would it do Sherlock now?  


He sighed and resolutely shoved Sherlock’s taxing brother out of his head. He quickly took Sherlock’s blood pressure again which hadn’t changed, and he managed to get a few tiny sips of water into Sherlock until he began coughing without waking up. 

_Well, it was at least something._  


He propped up a pillow against the bed-head and settled himself against it. Once again, he pulled Sherlock gently to his side and laid his head into his lap. He was reassured by Sherlock’s steady, quiet breathing and he readjusted the wet cloth and Sherlock’s forehead. He was still sweating profoundly.  


He would have to monitor him closely all night, check his breathing pattern and his heart rate, observe his body temperature and blood pressure. He knew it would have been much easier at the hospital where the machines would have done the work for him. But he also knew that he would have stayed up with Sherlock all night anyway, so he might as well do it here. Sherlock could wake up in his own home, where he wouldn’t have to lie in a strange bed and be looked after by strange nurses and doctors.  


John felt very tired and he knew it would be a very long night for him.  


_I’m here for you, love. Just sleep, I’ll watch over you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that the relationship between the Sherlock and John seems quite advanced for a season 2 story. So let's just pretend they've known each other a bit longer, maybe a few years. The bond they share in this story wouldn't make much sense otherwise, probably...maybe? I don't know really.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, there's not much of Sherlock in this one.  
> But it gave me an opportunity to concentrate on Mycroft for a change, that was fun to write :) On John, too, of course, bless him.  
> Once again, there's medical stuff in here I googled (as well as legal stuff) Forgive me any inconsistencies :)
> 
> I hope you like the new chapter, thanks for all the kudos' and comments, they are very much appreciated and keep me motivated:)

He checked Sherlock’s pulse and breathing approximately every thirty minutes. Both were fine, a little quick, but not too much. He checked his temperature every hour and noticed it rising slowly around two o'clock in the morning. He tried not to worry too much as he looked at the display which said 38.1. It didn’t have to automatically mean he had an infection, it was too early to tell for that. It could simply be his body’s reaction to the drug.  


Nevertheless, he was worried about the bite wound and though he didn’t want to put even more strain on Sherlock’s body he decided to administer a universal antibiotic to treat a possible infection in the shoulder prophylactically. He fed the liquid medicine to Sherlock very slowly spoon by spoon and held his head back so he would swallow. Sherlock coughed a little in his sleep but didn’t wake up.  


Feeling a little better, John dampened the cloth he held to Sherlock’s forehead again and again in order to stop or at least lessen the heavy perspiration. If it brought him even a little relief in his sleep, it was worth the effort. He couldn’t stop his hands from brushing through the clammy curls of Sherlock, as it calmed him down, gave him comfort.  


It felt a little weird to touch his friend so intimately. Although Sherlock seemed to have no concept of personal space when it came to John, they rarely really touched each other. He knew Sherlock didn’t like to have physical contact with other people and shaking people’s hands (or even embracing a few chosen people like Mrs. Hudson) was an almost daily challenge for him. John really seemed to be the one exception where he didn’t feel completely uncomfortable allowing more physical contact than he normally would.  


However, he felt a little bad taking comfort from touching Sherlock like that when he wasn’t awake – when he hadn’t _consented_ to being touched like that – so he quickly withdrew his hand as soon as he realized that, feeling guilty. Instead, he laid his hand on Sherlock’s slender arm. That was more neutral, and he settled back into a comfortable position.  


He knew that technically he was tired and that his body longed for him to go to sleep. But he wouldn’t because he had to look after Sherlock, so he simply resigned himself to sitting here on the bed with Sherlock all night. To distract himself from worrying he quickly got up to fetch one of his books from the living room, a medical guide on wounds and infections. It would be a good idea to freshen up his knowledge on bite wounds, especially human ones.  


Around three in the morning he finally noticed his bloody knuckles. Ah yes, he had totally forgotten he had beaten up that… monster. His hand actually hurt a little bit, but he didn’t regret doing it, not at least one bit. This human piece of filth completely deserved being smashed to bloody pieces and more for what he had done to his best friend. How could anyone do that to another person? How could anyone drug somebody to make them bend to their perverted desires? Did they like having someone beneath them completely helpless, crying, trembling? How fucked-up could people be?  


As he slowly got out of bed, careful not to wake Sherlock up – technically, he didn’t have to bother because Sherlock still wasn’t stirring – he slipped into the bathroom to wash the blood away from his hands. He had to scrub quite a bit because the blood was already encrusted into his skin but eventually most of it was gone. The bruises on his knuckles would stay with him for a while though, to remind him of the night that had turned composed, gentle John Watson into a raging, screaming madman.  


He shut off the water and took a step back from the sink, looking in the mirror. He simply looked awful: sallow skin, blood-shot eyes, ruffled hair. He looked lost. Suddenly his knees went weak underneath him and he grabbed the sink to steady himself. He lowered his head and took a deep breath. Slowly. _In. Out. In. Out._  


_He’ll be alright. He’s strong and he’ll not be brought down by this. Not if I have anything to do with it._  


He then remembered something about date-rape drugs. In most cases, the victims didn’t remember what had happened to them. Or if they did, they only remembered fractions and bits. That’s why it was so important to gather evidence to eventually convict the perpetrator.  


Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t remember his attack. That would be a good thing, right? Well, he had to be told, of course. He had the right to know what had happened to him – and John gulped as he realized that he would have to be the one to tell Sherlock. 

But maybe he wouldn’t remember anything by himself and that would be for the best. He could just hope it would turn out that way.  


He also hoped that Sherlock would consent to the rape kit being done. He wanted that man to pay for what he had done. He wanted him to rot in prison and maybe get a taste of his own medicine.  


John opened his eyes, a little surprised at his own dark thoughts. First the beating and then this. He knew he had a temper, but he was usually able to get himself under control, managing to avoid getting into brawls with people that upset him. But apparently, this man had brought out his most violent side, one that he couldn't keep in check. No wonder if it had been necessary to save Sherlock from harm. To witness something like that happening to him, was just plain awful.  


With another heavy sigh he pushed himself away from the sink and returned to Sherlock’s bedroom. It was time for another look at his friend’s vitals. There were still a few hours until dawn. Sherlock would sleep at least until morning, maybe longer. He had said he had experience with roofies and it was at least a bit true: he had treated one or two patients who had been subjected to them, but he had never held vigil over a victim he personally knew so he didn’t know exactly how long they would sleep. Drugs like that stayed in the victim’s system for 12-24 hours usually, 72 hours the most, depending on which drug had been administered. But every person reacted a little differently, according to body weight and height, etc.  


He grabbed his phone to write another quick text to Greg.  


_Don’t show up before noon. I don’t know if he’ll even be awake by then. John_  


He didn’t expect a reply at this time of the night, so he put his phone on the bedside table and reclaimed his place beside Sherlock, feeling comforted by his friend’s proximity and familiar scent but also concerned by the warmth radiating from him.  


////  


Greg showed up at eleven in the morning with a stern look on his face and two steaming coffee-to-go mugs in his hand. He was let in by a nervous Mrs. Hudson who called for him as soon as she had opened the door to their flat.  


“John? John, Inspector Lestrade is here. Are you up?” Her voice betrayed her concern. She wanted to know how Sherlock was, obviously, and that she had lasted for this long without bursting through their door was impressive.  


He quickly disentangled himself from Sherlock’s body clinging to him and hastened to the door.  


“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, “he said as he closed the door behind him, anxious not to make any unnecessary noises. If Sherlock still needed to sleep, he should be allowed to get some.  


“Oh, John, have you been with him the whole night?” Mrs. Hudson looked at him with open concern.  


He nodded at Greg and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee from him. Coffee was a little more suitable for him now than tea, for he could surely use that extra caffeine boost for the day that was ahead of him.  


“Yes, of course, “he said, and he cleared his throat. It seemed he was a little hoarse. “Someone had to watch over his vitals, check his pulse and breathing, make sure he was okay. He was drugged and we don’t really know with what yet so…”  


Mrs. Hudson looked at him and then at Greg, appalled. “Drugged? Dear Lord, why?”  


John didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell her what had happened, it simply wasn’t his place to tell. It would be up to Sherlock to tell her or anyone really, what had happened, it was his choice, not John’s.  


“Uhm, I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe ask Sherlock about it later, okay?” he murmured.  


She looked at him with visible frustration and he shrugged.  


“Well, could you tell me at least how he is?” she asked, moving on.  


“Well, he’s alright, I guess. He slept through the night and he’s still sleeping rather soundly, hasn’t stirred once. I’ve cleaned and dressed his wounds and his heart rate and breathing are almost normal since five in the morning. He has stopped sweating so much by then, finally, but I’m afraid his temperature is up a little. Not too worrisome, 38.1, doesn’t have to mean anything really. However, I gave him some antibiotics to be sure.”  


He looked up at them having realised he was rambling a little and saw them staring at him in concern. He had to look quite a mess to them, not having slept all night, with rumpled hair and blood-shot eyes. Maybe he should take the time to shower sometime soon, brush his teeth, too. But only if Sherlock was taken care of.  


He cleared his throat again.  


“Mrs. Hudson, could you do me a favour? Would you look after Sherlock while I talk with the Inspector here? Just make sure he’s breathing normally, alright?”  


“Of course, dear, “she said, glad to be included, and she patted his shoulder affectionally, as she passed him on her way to Sherlock’s bedroom.  


John sat down on the sofa and took a sip from his coffee. Although it was not very good it tasted amazing to him and he felt a little more awake at once. He closed his eyes and massaged his temple with his fingers. Maybe he should take some paracetamol, for he had quite the headache.  


“How are you holding up, John?” Greg asked quietly from where he stood, a few feet away from John, looking at him cautiously while he slowly drank his coffee.  


“Fine, Greg, “John said with a strained smile, “a little tired maybe but that’s all.”  


Greg sighed. “He would have been looked after at the hospital. Why did you insist on taking him here?”  


“I had to, Greg. You know he hates hospitals and in the state he’s in…. I’d rather he feels comfortable and is surrounded by people he knows.”  


“Okay. I understand.” Greg nodded. “Well, we’re lucky then that Sherlock has a powerful brother with a minor position in the British government then, right?” and he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood somewhat.  


“Yes, “John mumbled. “I guess.”  


“I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up yet. Do you think he’s…?”  


“Oh, he just waited for someone to come in and make the first move so that he wouldn’t be the one to do so. But now that you’re here, I’ll give him…” – John looked at his watch – “oh, I think, ten minutes at the most.”  


Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Okay. If you say so. Well, then we’d better quickly discussed something before he does show up.”  


John groaned. “Do we have to do this now, Greg?”  


“Yes, I fear we have to, “Greg answered, “I have to follow the rules, you know that.”  


John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, shrugged, and said nothing.  


“Okay, “Greg said as he sat down in the big chair opposite the sofa. “I have to take your statement as well as Sherlock’s. Since he’s still asleep I might as well take your statement now.”  


“But you know what happened, “John said, already exasperated.  


“Not everything I don’t, “Greg replied sharply. “So please humour me, John. I followed you up until that street where we’ve met those two blokes but then I got caught up for a second, calling for Meyers and Cooke and you just took off. We had to figure out where you went and only when we heard you scream did we know where you were. That’s when we ran to you and found you sitting on that guy, beating the bloody shit out of him. When we had to pull you off of him. Are you following me?”  


“Yes, of course, “John mumbled into his coffee.  


“Well, what happened before that? What happened before you beat him?”  


At John’s incredulous look at him Greg shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, John, but I have to know. We saw you attacking a man rather brutally and we have to know the exact circumstances.”  


John pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and he didn’t want to talk about this. What he wanted was to look after Sherlock again, to make sure he was okay. But he knew he couldn’t get out of this, so it would be better to just get it over with.  


“Well, “he began with a heavy sigh, “when those guys told me they went to the park I ran there straight and I followed the first road. At the crossroad I turned left and followed that road for a while but when I didn’t see anything I just ran cross-country. Then I heard a voice. He was saying … vile things. I first thought it was just some couple about to have sex in the park but then I heard his voice… Sherlock’s.” John’s voice faltered a little. “He was saying ‘No’ again and again very softly, but I was sure it was him. I ran around the corner and then I saw them.”  


He stopped and closed his eyes. At once the image from the night before appeared in his head, and forced himself to breathe evenly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides subconsciously. Hot fury welled up inside his stomach and he had to take another deep breath, trying to will it away.  


Greg noticed but thankfully, he didn’t say anything. He just left him space he knew his friend needed right now.  


After a minute or two John calmed down again. He opened his eyes and continued, his voice flat and quiet. “He was lying on top of him, rutting against him. He was groping him, kissing him, sucking at his neck, I think.”  


“And Sherlock? Did he… participate in the activities?”  


John stared at Greg in astonishment. “Are you serious? You know he was drugged!”  


Greg had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know that, John. I have to ask these questions, it’s standard procedure, you know that.”  


“Well, “John snapped, “no, he didn’t _participate in the activities_. He was moaning and trembling and trying to get the bastard off of him but couldn’t because he was so weak. He was completely helpless, Greg. I have never ever seen him like that. It was … truly awful.”  


Another pause. Then, with a raspy voice, he continued, “and that’s when he bit him. He bit him in the shoulder, Greg, and God, he screamed, it was terrifying. I couldn’t think any more then. I just…reacted. I needed to help Sherlock, get that bloke off him, so I ran to them and threw him off. And yes, apparently, I totally freaked out because I remember beating that bloody piece of shit and you know what, Greg? It felt good. I could have killed him right there and then and that would have been okay for me because of what he’s done to Sherlock!”  


“Well, “Greg said quietly, without looking at John, “I’m not gonna put that last sentence into your statement, I guess.”  


John just fumed silently.  


“Alright, John, I have enough. We have to wait and see if Mr. ahh …” and he looked into his notebook, - Mr. Taylor will press charges against you. He had to undergo surgery last night - you broke his nose and he has a concussion. He’s intubated and still unconscious in ICU at Bart’s.”  


John shrugged. He didn’t care.  


Greg sighed again. “Look, this isn’t easy for me, too, you know? He’s my friend, too.”  


John finally looked up at him and smiled a tired smile at him. “I know Greg. It’s just …. a little much right now.”  


Greg simply nodded and after a few moments of silence asked softly “When do you think he’s gonna wake up?”  


“I don’t know. Soon I think.” John hoped. He was concerned and although he wanted his friend to get his rest and sleep off the drug’s effects, he wanted his talking, vivid Sherlock back. The restless, fast-talking, annoying Sherlock he knew and well, had gotten used to. He had accepted Sherlock’s difficult personality a long time ago and had to admit that he had grown to appreciate it. It was annoying, yes, but it was funny too. It was hilarious to observe how Sherlock reduced almost every client into a stuttering, embarrassed mess after he had deducted everything important - and unimportant - there was to know about them.  


He had grown used to the arrogant, but incredibly clever person he called his colleague. He had grown to really like that also warm-hearted, gentle, and loving person he called his best friend. The friend who had performed the miracle of turning him, John, from a lonely, sad war veteran with PTSD into a man who enjoyed life again by solving crimes with the world’s only consulting detective.  


It would be a while before he would have the old Sherlock back, he guessed.  


Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Or rather a knock at the door frame because Mrs. Hudson hadn’t closed the door behind them. They both looked up in surprise and saw Mycroft Holmes standing there, looking neat in his impeccable suit and tie, as usual, umbrella in his right hand. Greg looked at his watch and nodded in appreciation. _Ten minutes. Not bad, John._  


“Good day, gentlemen, “Mycroft announced himself in a sober tone. “Is now a good time to come by?”  


Without waiting for an answer and not really expecting one he stepped inside and sat in the other chair, Sherlock’s chair, his posture rigid.  


“So, gentlemen, how is the situation?” he asked softly, politely as if his brother hadn’t nearly been raped the night before.  


“He’s still sleeping, Mycroft, “John said wearily, “so you’ll have to wait a little more if you want to talk to him.”  


“I see, “Mycroft said, and John noticed a flash in his eyes as if he was annoyed but he might have imagined that. “How badly is he injured?”  


John very pragmatically filled him in on Sherlock’s injuries. Mycroft never showed any reaction as John enumerated bruises, bites, and scratch marks although his eyebrow twitched a little when John mentioned the serious bite mark on the shoulder.  


He cleared his throat. “So, he was not … raped, correct? Just sexually assaulted?”  


John stared at him for a moment. “Yes, Mycroft, thank God, it was just sexual assault.”  


Mycroft smiled although the smile never reached his eyes. “No need to work yourself up, Dr. Watson. I’m just as upset about the attack on my brother as you are.”  


“Oh yeah?” John got up from the couch, his voice heated now as he indeed managed to work himself up into a fit. “Please, don’t get too emotional here, it would be really unfitting for a member of the British government, would it? To get all weepy over an annoying little brother!”  


Greg stood up too. “Please, calm down, John.”  


Mycroft smiled at him, in his typically condescending manner. “Yes, Dr. Watson, do calm down, please. There’s no need to be dramatic.” As John continued to stare at him furiously, he added, a little softer “My apologies, if I offended you.”  


John nodded curtly and sat down on the sofa again. God, he didn’t really need Mycroft around him now. He had enough troubles as it is.  


“What about the perpetrator”? was Mycroft’s next question and Greg filled him on in the man’s condition. Mycroft seemed to muse a little then he looked at Greg and said: “Inspector Lestrade, please don’t worry about charges against Dr. Watson here. There won’t be any.”  


“Oh?” Greg raised his eyebrows but then a knowing smile reached his lips. “Ah, okay, right.”  


John’s fury welled up again and he was back on his feet in a matter of seconds. “No, Mycroft, no! I don’t need you to fight my battles for me! Stay out of it, stop meddling!”  


Mycroft stood up as well. “Oh? Would you really have me stand down so that they can charge you with grievous bodily harm, possibly attempted murder? That could mean five to ten years in prison for you, are you aware of that?”  


John threw up his hands angrily. “Well, that would be my problem then, wouldn’t it?”  


“No!” Mycroft took another step forward and got right into John’s face “No, I ask you to reconsider, Dr. Watson because I think you don’t see clearly. Do you have my brother’s best interest in mind? Because I don’t think you do right now. What good are you to him when you’re caught up in a month-long trial? How can you help him if you’re in prison? He needs you now. So I suggest you be _here_ , here in Baker Street where he is, and help him! Swallow down your pride, for God’s sake - no, for his sake!”  


John felt as if he had been slapped in the face and resisted the urge to take a step back. He didn’t want Mycroft to think he was afraid of him. But he knew that the man had a point. He hated to accept help from this arrogant, posh man who was capable of making a charge of attempted murder just disappear with a snap of his fingers. He didn’t want his help. But he knew he had to take it. For Sherlock who needed him. Mycroft was right.  


“Fine, “he said through gritted teeth. And that was all that needed to be said, the matter was done. Mycroft nodded and they stepped away from each other again, the tension in the room dispersing again.  


“There’s one more thing that’s important now.” Mycroft wandered through the living room as he swirled his umbrella playfully. “I understand your need to treat him here. I think it was a good idea, I wouldn’t have helped you if I didn’t.” Cue a slightly accusatory glance in John’s direction. John didn’t even blink.  


“But I want to get that rape kit done, “Mycroft continued, “I want it done so that man will receive the punishment he deserves.”  


“What?”, John asked incredulously, “you can make my attempted murder charge go away, but you can’t just make them convict him?”  


“Even to my powers there are limits, John, “Mycroft stated coldly. “And it won’t be a problem to convict him if they have all the evidence they need. So, we’re gonna give it to them. I want to have a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner look at him today and get the kit done.”  


“He’s not even awake yet!”  


“Well, we’ll have to wake him then, because it needs to be done. You know that Dr. Watson, we cannot lose more time.” John looked away as Mycroft’s cold blue eyes pierced through him.  


“Alright, “he conceded sullenly, “we can try but I’m quite sure he won’t be happy about it. And I want him to wake up in peace so don’t have that Nurse Examiner person show up for at least another two hours.”  


“Alright. Two hours it is then.” Mycroft smiled slightly as if he had won a battle.  


“Alright.”  


Suddenly there was silence in the room and John asked himself if there was another “important matter” Mycroft wanted to talk about.  


Mycroft seemed a little uncomfortable, as he cleared his voice and finally said “Can I, uhm, can I see him? For just one moment?”  


John looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Mycroft Holmes was always so cool, always so in control of his emotions, and most of the time John wasn’t even sure there were any emotions that Mycroft needed to control. But maybe 

Mycroft really did care for his brother. Not just as an asset he needed to protect so he could continue solving riddles for him, preventing political crises. But also, as simply a little brother he loved. Even if he would never admit it.  


“Well, I guess, “he said, trying to sound neutral. He beckoned to Mycroft to follow him and quietly they walked over to Sherlock’s bedroom. John opened the door slowly and his heart ached all over again when he saw Sherlock lying completely still in his bed on his back, his chest rising steadily up and down in his sleep. Mrs. Hudson was just patting his forehead with a fresh wet cloth and he could see her hands were trembling. She was obviously distressed.  


“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, “he said, gratitude in his voice. “Could I ask you another favour?”  


“Tea?” She asked with a sad smile.  


He nodded so she got up from the bed and left the room, not without caressing Sherlock’s cheek tenderly before.  


Unsure whether Mycroft wanted him to stay John lingered at the door. He was anxious to stay near Sherlock. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind him. He sat down on the bed heavily and just looked at his sleeping brother.  


He sat there for a good five minutes, just looking and John was not able to decipher any emotions or thoughts from his face or body. It was like looking at a painting, there was simply no movement although John guessed there were suppressed emotions hidden in that man somewhere.  


At last Mycroft reached out and brushed a curl away from his brother’s face. His fingertips lingered on Sherlock’s temple as if he couldn’t decide whether to stroke his head or not. In the end, he just took his hand back again and stood up.  


“The nurse will be there in two hours, Dr. Watson, “he said flatly. “Please try to wake him until then.”  


John nodded. Mycroft nodded too and then he was gone.  


John sighed, relieved that he was gone because his presence always made him feel a little small. On the other hand, he was glad he had shown up. Even if Sherlock had not been awake to see it his brother was apparently actually concerned for him and wanted him to get well again. He also wanted justice for him, and John was on board with that notion, _oh yes_.  


Before he went back to Sherlock, he noticed Greg hesitating in the living room a few meters away.  


“I still need that statement from him, John, “he said, looking sorry for even saying it.  


“Well, yes, “John replied, “but I need to wake him first and have him up for an hour so could you maybe come back later? Maybe even after Mycroft’s nurse was here? In three hours?”  


Greg nodded as he looked at his watch. “Alright, I’ll grab lunch then and get back to the office. I’ll drop by later. See you.”  


He left too and now there was only Mrs. Hudson bustling about in the kitchen as she made them some tea and probably also something to eat (although she was not their housekeeper).  


John was relieved by the silence again and sat next to Sherlock. He checked his pulse and was relieved when it showed a steady heartbeat. Sherlock had stopped sweating so profusely a few hours ago, his hair now lay languidly around his face without its usual luster. He looked much younger now than he was. He was pale and his cheekbones stood out even more than usual. His split lip and bruised cheek made him look fragile and small. John raised his hand to Sherlock’s temple to brush away a curl there and chuckled to himself when he realized his movement was mirroring Mycroft’s from moments before. They were alike in their concern for the brilliant man lying before him. He was both of the men’s weakness.  


“Sherlock, “he said quietly, pulling himself out of his reverie. “Sherlock wake up, please.” He softly gave Sherlock’s shoulder a shake. No reaction.  


John shook a little harder. “I know you want to sleep more, and you can do that again soon, but we need you to wake up now. Can you please wake up for me?”  


Sherlock’s breath hitched and he stirred a little so John continued to speak to him softly, stroking his hair and his shoulder to maintain the connection. Eventually, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.  


“There you are.” John said, relieved.  


“J-John?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and weak. John tried really hard not to let it show on his face that he was appalled even though Sherlock was not really looking at him right now because he was still in the process of waking up.  


“It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s me, John. Just take it easy.” John took Sherlock’s arm and pulled him up a little, as Sherlock’s eyes opened more widely trying to take in where he was.  


“John, h-how am I here? I-I don’t remember going to bed last night…”  


John remained silent and looked at Sherlock who, gradually growing more aware of his surroundings, sat himself up straight and grabbed John’s arm in confusion. “Something happened last night, right? I-I can’t remember. I … feel funny. Head hurts. What’s going on?”  


He stared at John and looked him right in the eye. “John, tell me what happened yesterday.”


	7. Chapter 7

John swallowed heavily. He took Sherlock’s hands into his as he tried to find the right words in his mind to explain to Sherlock what had happened to him. But he just couldn’t form any coherent sentence which resulted in him sitting there opening and closing his mouth silently like a bloody damn fish.  


Sherlock’s hands trembled in his and his eyes searched John's intensely as if trying to find some answers in them.  


“John? What is it?” His voice was a little bit stronger now, although it still sounded as if he was a bit drunk, his words slurred together a little.  


“Sherlock, I ….” John started then he stopped again. _God, this is hard._  


“Yes? You’re really making me nervous here, John, “Sherlock said, his voice rising with anxiousness.  


John sighed and looked Sherlock straight in the face. “Okay, so do you remember that we went out last night? You, me, and Greg Lestrade?” Sherlock nodded.  


“Okay, do you remember drinking anything a stranger gave you or that your beer tasted funny?” Sherlock looked at him in utter confusion and John cursed himself inwardly for not being able to ease his friend into the whole situation better.  


“I … “Sherlock winced as if talking made his head hurt which it probably did. “I remember drinking and eating with you and then I went outside to get some air, and then there was this guy…” He frowned as he tried to remember what had happened after that, but he just couldn’t … it was all hazy and he felt funny anyhow. His head ached as if it would burst any second, his whole body felt like jelly and he was so goddamn tired, he just wanted to go back to sleep again.  


“Why do I feel so strange, John? My body…I don’t feel good and I’m so tired.” Sherlock felt the well-known call of his most inner self, pressuring him to analyse his body’s symptoms, to deduce himself. But he just couldn’t get his brain to function - it felt as if there was a thick, black mass of wax in his head, sticking over his synapses so they wouldn’t be able to pass any signals. To analyse, to deduct, to be himself: it was just not possible right now and that scared him to the core.  


“Calm down, Sherlock, please, “John implored as he held him at an arm’s length, intent on keeping eye contact.  


“Am I still drunk? Is that it? “Sherlock asked incredulously. “But I only drank two glasses of beer, how can that be?”  


“No, Sherlock, “John said, and he squeezed his friend’s shoulder in compassion, “you’re not drunk anymore. You never really were.”  


“Well, what then? Just tell me.” Sherlock was growing impatient and John was making him nervous. He didn’t like feeling nervous.  


John’s eyes searched his anxiously as he took a deep breath and finally said, “You’ve been drugged.”  


“Drugged?” Sherlock dropped his gaze as he desperately tried to remember what had happened. Yes, he had felt funny yesterday. _Hot. Sweaty. Headache. Heavy limbs. On the way to the loo…he had fallen and then…_  


Suddenly, the image of a tall, blonde man appeared in his head. A tall, blonde man pouncing on him, touching him, kissing him….  


He closed his eyes as different, fuzzy images appeared before his eyes.  


_Arm wrapped around his back to hold him up.  
_

__

__

_Rough hands shoved underneath his shirt.  
_

__

__

_Hot, demanding tongue stuck inside his mouth, prying his lips and teeth apart.  
_

__

__

_Pain. Unbelievable pain in his shoulder.  
_

__

__

Sherlock gasped. His hand searched for his shoulder, searched for the wound there.  


_Oh God.  
_

__

__

“Sherlock. Sherlock, are you okay?” John’s voice sounded …. concerned, probably and he sluggishly registered soft, strong hands on his arms, trying to calm him down but he didn’t react. He couldn’t react.  


There had been a man. And he had dragged him off. Had touched him although Sherlock didn’t want him to.  


Sherlock’s mind desperately tried to put all the pieces together but his brain was still under the drug’s influence and a voice in the back of his head told him to leave it for now, he wouldn’t get any answers while he was still in this state. _No, I have to know_ , he tried to tell that voice, but it was no use since he couldn’t really think. His hands trembled as he raised them to his temples, as he tried to block out these voices in his head, shouting at each other.  


One thing remained. A voice, rough and hoarse, telling him _“You smell so good, darling, I could just eat you up.”_  


And he found himself gasping for air. There was no air, or his lungs were too stupid to get some air into them or maybe he himself was too stupid but all he knew was that he couldn’t breathe. He looked at John with panic in his eyes and immediately saw his own fear reflected in his friend’s eyes.  


“J-John! John, I can’t breathe!”  


John grabbed his arms again and ducked his head to find Sherlock’s eyes again, he had dropped his gaze in his panic. “Sherlock calm down. You can breathe, you just have to concentrate. Look at me!”  


Sherlock realized his whole body was trembling and hot, searing pain filled his head. Air. He needed air. His throat was sealed up tight and he felt as if he were being strangled. He clawed at it like an animal, as if it would make it suddenly fill up with oxygen. He felt himself choking and he coughed, his eyes welling up with tears.  


“Sherlock!”  


He was grabbed by the shoulders and suddenly, John Watson’s face was inches away from his own.  


“Sherlock look at me! Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on!”  


Sherlock managed to concentrate his gaze on John and although it was hard at first, breathed in together with him through the nose, and then out through the mouth. They did it again and again.  


“That’s good, yes, perfect, keep breathing, Sherlock.” John’s eyes lit up in relief as he noticed that Sherlock finally responded to his commands. “You’re doing great, Sherlock, keep going.”  


Sweet oxygen finally filled Sherlock’s lungs and he inhaled gratefully, his gaze still fixed on his best friend. After a few minutes, his breathing calmed down, he felt his heartbeat drop to normal again. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. John was observing him intensely and Sherlock was touched to see the relief in his eyes. _Kind, comforting John._  


Nevertheless, he took John’s hands softly into his and removed them from his shoulders. At his friend’s inquiring look he took another quick breath, his mind still fuzzy. “John, please tell me what exactly happened. I …. I remember there was a man …. He took me away from the pub … I’m not quite sure where …. And then I remember …. Him touching me …. Can you ….” He closed his eyes as the words refused to leave his mouth. He struggled to gather up his will and finally forced out: “Can you please tell me if he raped me? I don’t remember.”  


He heard John exhale shakily. “No, Sherlock. He didn’t.”  


A huge wave of relief washed over him then and he let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. A small smile crept upon his lips. _Thank God._  


“How?” he asked, his voice steadier now. “He drugged me, you said. Rohypnol, probably, right? I couldn’t see right, could hardly move my limbs, brain all fuzzy and then the headache.”  


John nodded, amazed that his friend was already back at the familiar game of deduction.  


“Well, how, John? How come he didn’t rape me?”  


John saw something strange in Sherlock’s eyes and he recoiled a bit. “I stopped him. I found you in the park and I …. Well, I got him off of you before he could get that far.”  


Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What did you do to him?”  


John shrugged. “Broke his nose, gave him a concussion. It doesn’t matter. The bastard had it coming.”  


Again, Sherlock felt a huge wave of affection towards the man in front of him. The man whose eyes still sparkled dangerously when he spoke of Sherlock’s attacker, the man whose hands were clenched into fists, betraying the anger still burning in his veins when he remembered yesterday’s events.  


“Thanks, John, “he said softly, and he took John’s hands into his. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t so instead he raised his hand to cup John’s face and for a moment they simply stared at each other, green eyes piercing into blue ones, the air hanging heavily between them in an unexpected moment of intimacy.  


“Of course, Sherlock, “John said hoarsely, “That's what friends are for.”  


Sherlock smiled and he withdrew his hand. “I know, John.”  


Then he scrambled to the edge of the bed. He had decided he needed to move his body a little bit. John’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm.  


“Sherlock? What are you doing?”  


Surprised, Sherlock looked at him. “What do you think? I need to pee.”  


John withdrew his arm and looked a little bit embarrassed, nevertheless, he said “Alright, but you need to take it easy. The drug’s still in your system. I doubt you can walk steadily already.”  


“Oh, I bet you I can, “Sherlock said, his voice confident, and he started to push himself off the bed to prove it. John tried to stop him, but Sherlock shook his arm off and got up.  


A small wave of dizziness swept over him and he had to grab the bedframe to regain his balance. The room was spinning and already his hands were trembling again, as well as his legs.  


“See? I told you.” There was triumph but also concern in John’s voice. Sherlock wanted to show him he could shove that wherever he wanted to, so he shook his head, took another deep breath, and took a step forward.  


The room was still spinning, but he managed to remain upright. His hand reached out so he could find support from the nearest wall. He took another step and deducted that it was a little hard, but he would manage. He looked up at John triumphantly.  


“Now do you see?”  


John said nothing but he didn’t look happy. He now stood next to Sherlock with his hands outstretched towards him, as if he expected Sherlock to fall any second and was ready to catch him as soon as that happened.  


Sherlock ignored him and slowly made his way forward. He left his bedroom and staggered towards the bathroom, John right behind him.  


Out of breath, he leaned against the bathroom’s door and turned to look at John. “Do you mind?” he asked sourly. John just nodded and took a step back. With a little effort, Sherlock shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.  


Safely away from John’s concerned gaze he supported himself on the sink and greedily took a few deep breaths. He didn’t feel great, his body still felt heavy as if it weighed a ton and it had taken all his strength to get here. He felt slightly nauseous and his head was killing him. But he didn’t want John to see, he wouldn’t stop fussing about him if he knew, it was easier to just pretend he was okay.  


After another quick breath he managed to reach the toilet where he sat down to pee. Getting up again and reaching the sink to wash his hands and face took another long time. _Damn. John will be pacing up and down in front of the door, no way he isn’t._

He sighed as he sprinkled a few drops of cold water on his face and neck – it felt good on his too-hot skin. At last, he decided he couldn’t avoid the unavoidable, so he raised his head to look in the mirror.  


He was shocked at his own reflection. He looked wrecked. His hair lay dull around his face. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and he was pale, even paler than usual. There was a distinctive bruise on his right cheek, his lip was split. He looked simply pathetic, so he quickly averted his gaze.  


The inside of his mouth tasted as if something had crawled inside and died there. He couldn’t stand it, so he quickly grabbed his toothbrush and brushed his teeth vigorously. Obviously, John had cleaned the wounds on his face already and another surge of gratitude rushed through Sherlock. It was then that he also noticed the bandages sticking out from under his shirt, on his left shoulder. He pulled the fabric away and inspected the bandages. He flinched when suddenly images appeared in his mind.  


_Rough hands under his shirt, grabbing his hips possessively._  


_A voice in his ear: “You really thought you were better than me, huh?” A slap against his cheek. “Now you’re not so smart anymore, I can see.” Another slap._  


_Rough hands sliding down his body, grabbing his arse, kneading the vulnerable flesh voraciously._  


_“I’ll fuck you so hard, darling, you won’t be able sit for days…”_

_No._  


Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to chase the unwelcome images and that man’s voice away from his mind. _This is stupid. Simply stupid. I really have to pull myself together._  


Determination written in his face, he dried his hands and slowly walked to the door. He didn’t want to appear weak, but he also didn’t want to overdo it - he knew his body was unpredictable until the drug was out of his system. He needed to know what exactly was in his blood now, slowing him down, so he could know when he could expect it to be normal again. He hated being powerless to the drug’s effects on his body some awful stranger had decided to subject him to. Just to take …. revenge or something. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about him anymore. It wasn’t worth his time.  


He opened the door and found himself stepping right into John’s face.  


“You okay there, Sherlock? “he asked, and Sherlock was already tired of the concern in his voice.  


“Yes, of course, fine, John, “he muttered and shoved past his friend. He ventured into the kitchen and was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson there, standing at the cooker and stirring in a big pot with a ladle. She heard him coming in and let the ladle drop into the pot at once.  


“Oh, you’re awake, dear, “she said nervously. She hesitated towards him as if she wanted to touch him but didn’t dare it. “Are you alright? How are you feeling, you poor thing?”  


He smiled politely. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I’m quite alright. What are you doing here?”  


“Oh, I am cooking you a soup, - vegetables - I thought, to give you your strength back and John can use it too after looking after you all night. Tea’s ready for you on the table, dear, it will make you feel better.” He looked at the table to indeed find a steaming kettle of tea there, as well as his and John’s favourite cups.  


He smiled again, though it came out quite strained this time. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m not ill, “he said, irritation clear in his voice.  


She hesitated and looked at John lingering next to Sherlock. “Well, no, dear, but …. I thought that ….”  


“You thought that it was a good idea to stick around and make sure I was eating and drinking although you know I don’t care much for soup and you weren’t asked to do so. I’m quite tired, Mrs. Hudson, and not in the mood for small talk so it may be better if you went back to your own apartment. I’m sure there’s nothing interesting to see here.”  


She looked at him with an expression of hurt and shock, it made him regret his words but at the same time he couldn’t muster up the strength to apologize. He could do that later. He really was tired.  


“Alright, I’ll leave you to it then, “she said frostily, “John, you just need to stir the soup for another ten minutes then it’s ready to eat. If you want to that is, you can throw it away if you don’t.”  


“Mrs. Hudson ….” John went after her, but she just threw a distraught look over her shoulder, and then she was gone, her shoes clicking on the floor as she hurried down the stairs to her apartment, muttering to herself in anger.  


“Sherlock! That was not nice, “John said accusatorily as he turned back to his friend who meanwhile had sat down in his chair and was pouring himself a cup of tea.  


“Maybe.” Sherlock sighed and John registered the slightly trembling hands as he raised his teacup to his mouth. “But I’m really tired, John. I still feel kind of funny, it’s as if I can sense the toxin in my veins and it’s not pleasant. I just want to drink a cup of tea and then go back to bed again. Maybe that ghastly stuff is out of my system when I wake up again. Do you know what it is yet?”  


“No, they wanted to call me when the tests are done, “John replied, his tone already softer at Sherlock’s admission that he was tired. “They should be calling soon.”  


Sherlock nodded and sipped at his tea. It was hot and strong, and it felt like heaven. He closed his eyes as he felt his body relax at the warmth spreading through his stiff limbs and for a moment he felt okay. Not as if he had been drugged – was still drugged – in order to get raped. _Stop thinking about it, Sherlock. Now._  


John watched his friend quietly and he couldn’t help but worry about him. Well, when did he ever not worry about Sherlock? But never as strong as this time and never under these kinds of circumstances, that was a given. It was his impression that his friend tried to appear stronger than he actually felt. He had admitted to being tired, that was at least something. But he was already walking about their apartment as if nothing unusual had happened last night and as if he wasn’t still under the influence of a sedative drug, well probably at least. He needed him to be reasonable, he needed him to work with him, let himself be looked after properly. That meant eating, for instance, too.  


“Well, if you enjoy the tea so much, won’t you consider eating at least a little bowl of soup?” he asked and sighed when Sherlock was already shaking his head as soon as he started talking.  


“No, I won’t, “he said simply, “I’m not hungry.”  


“As usual, “John muttered in frustration. “Well, I need to take a look at you now, alright? Just a quick check of your vitals.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Is that really necessary, John?”  


John rolled his eyes, too. “Yes, Sherlock, it is. I don’t even have to explain to you why it’s important as you bloody well know why it is.”  


Sherlock looked frustrated but didn’t protest when John quickly fetched a few things and then kneeled down in front of him. He seemed incredibly irritated when John slipped the thermometer into his mouth and John saw he was about to spit it out so he fixed him with a strict stare and a “Don’t you dare, Mister!” He acquiesced to John taking his pulse and checking his pupils without making a fuss.  


“How’s the head?” John asked.  


“Hurts.”  


“Are you nauseous?”  


“A little.”  


“Are you still dizzy?”  


“A little.”  


“How’s the shoulder?”  


“Not too bad.”  


“Alright.” John took the thermometer out of Sherlock’s mouth again as it beeped and was a little anxious when he saw it was still 38.1.  


At that moment, his phone rang. He answered when he saw it was the hospital.  


“Yes, Dr. Watson speaking. Alright, okay, as I thought. How much? Ah, okay… Well, thanks for letting me know. Bye.”  


Sherlock looked at him. “Rohypnol, was I right?” John nodded. “Four milligrams, apparently.”  


“Alright good. Now I can look up when it’s going to be out of my system.” He grabbed his laptop, pulled up his legs to settle into his usual sitting position, and began his research at once. John stared at him. _He’s going to deal with this as if it’s simply a nuisance. He’s going to deduce it and that’s that. Well, not on John Watson’s watch._  


“Sherlock, “he said, and he cleared his voice, “please don’t act as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. This isn’t just one of your cases you have to solve. This is not something you can just brush aside. You were drugged and taken away against your will. You were sexually assaulted and …”  


“Yes, John, I know, “Sherlock interrupted him sharply, his hands still moving rapidly on his keyboard, “yes, I was assaulted. But what should I do now in your opinion? Cry my eyes out about it? What’s done is done. So let’s move on because I’m getting bored already.”  


“Are you serious?” John stared at Sherlock with an open mouth. “You were nearly raped, for God’s sake, you cannot pretend that’s nothing!”  


Sherlock threw him an exasperated look. “I don’t pretend anything, John. I simply state the obvious: I cannot change the past, I can only act in the here and now, and what good is it to whine over past things? Nothing, exactly, so we should find out when this bloody drug will be out of my system and get the hell on with more important things. Have you been on the blog, are there new interesting cases?”  


John stared at him and said nothing. Sherlock stared back and when he realized there would be no answer he muttered, “Apparently not” and continued to hack on the keyboard.  


After a few seconds, John’s fist landed on the table with a thud. “No, you’re not!” he yelled, and Sherlock flinched violently, nearly dropping his laptop. “You’re not doing this, Sherlock, you’re insane!”  


He got up and began to pace the living room. Sherlock looked at him as if _he_ had gone insane.  


“You, “John pointed at him angrily, “you will not do this! I won’t let you do this!”  


“I can do anything I want, John, “Sherlock said, making a point of making his voice sound bored. “Please, could you stop shouting? You know my head hurts.”  


“You had a panic attack in your bedroom a little while ago, do you remember?” John growled, “do you want to pretend that didn’t happen, too?”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes “That was a simple psychosomatic reaction to stress, John, it wasn’t anything serious. It won’t happen again.”  


“It won’t …. Jesus!”  


John threw his hands up in the air and promptly stomped out of the living room. He stopped outside of the bathroom and leaned his arms against the wall, with his head hung down. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was so angry, his throat felt blocked up, his hands trembling where they were clenched into fists as he pushed himself off the wall. He wanted to hit something he was so angry. _Why was Sherlock being this way? Why wouldn’t he admit that he needed to heal a little before he could go back to normal. The assault was just barely twelve hours ago, for God’s sake!_  


On an impulse, he stormed back into the living room. “Sherlock, I’m asking you to just stop doing this, “he pleaded, his voice less heated than before but still very agitated. “Please, you are not okay…”  


Sherlock fixed him with a cold stare. “I think it’s my decision if I feel okay or not, John. Please don’t be presumptuous, it doesn’t suit you.”  


John changed his tactics. “You know what? You can’t treat this like unimportant news. I won’t let you and Mycroft won’t let you either.”  


Now he had him. Sherlock looked up from his laptop and shifted nervously. “Mycroft? What do you mean? Does he know?”  


John scoffed. “What do you mean, ‘does he know’? Of course, he knows. He always knows everything that’s going on in this country and he sure as hell knows everything that’s going on with you. Who do you think made it possible that you were allowed to go home, instead of the hospital, to be treated by me, here?”  


Sherlock didn’t say anything, he just looked anxious.  


“He was here an hour ago and asked how you were. You were still asleep then so I couldn’t tell him much. But he will return here in an hour and he’ll have a nurse with him to examine you.” _There, let him deal with that._  


“What?!” Sherlock tossed the laptop aside and jumped up from his chair. “That’s completely unnecessary, why would he do that?”  


“You were nearly raped, Sherlock, you need to be examined!” _Okay, back to the yelling again._  


Sherlock took a few steps forward and waved his arm angrily in John’s direction. “Yes, you blockhead, you’ve got that right: I was NEARLY raped. It didn’t happen so there’s no need to examine me!”  


“He still attacked and abused you, Sherlock, even if he didn’t rape you!” John’s voice was trembling hard now, he just couldn’t understand Sherlock’s stubbornness. “Mycroft wants that rape kit done, we need that evidence so that your attacker can be convicted.”  


“No!” Sherlock yelled back. “No, he can forget about that, I won’t allow it! I don’t want it, it’s not necessary!”  


“But what about your attacker, do you want him to go free?” John asked desperately.  


“I don’t care, it’s over. Mycroft can take care of him if he likes, you know he can do that. So why force me to do this ridiculous examination if I don’t want it and it’s not necessary? I won’t do it!”  


“You’re such an idiot, Sherlock! I can't believe you're....” But right at that moment, Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the ground.  


“Sherlock!” John was at his friend’s side in an instant and he grabbed his wrist first to check his pulse, stroking over his hair with the other hand at the same time. It was strong but erratic. It had been simply too much stress and his body couldn’t cope with it right now, with the Rohypnol still in its system.  


At once, John felt guilty for yelling at his friend in the state that he was in, but he pushed that guilt aside. Sherlock needed him now.  


He cradled Sherlock’s head in his lap and patted Sherlock’s cheek softly. “Sherlock? Can you hear me? Wake up, please.” No reaction. He felt his forehead and found it a bit warm. He was breathing normally though.  


“I’m sorry for yelling at you, I’m sorry, “John whispered as he held his friend in his arms. “Please come around, I’ll stop yelling, I promise.”  


Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, but his pupils were dilated and unfocused and he raised his head very weakly. “J-John?”  


John gratefully squeezed his shoulder and nodded. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m here. You collapsed a minute ago, your body needs rest. The sofa is right there next to you, do you think we can get you there?” Sherlock closed his eyes, apparently in pain – he probably had a nasty headache. But he nodded ever so slightly so John laid his arm around his shoulder, the other behind his back, and lifted him up. Sherlock lay heavily on his shoulder, almost completely unable to hold his own weight but John managed to half-drag, half-carry him to the sofa and lay him down there. Sherlock, once in a horizontal position, curled in onto himself at once and closed his eyes again. “S-so tired, John, “he whispered, his words slurring again. “N-need to lay down, a little.” He was asleep within seconds.  


John let out a shaky breath as he stood over his sleeping friend and he ran a hand over his mouth, feeling quite tired himself. What had happened just now? What had he done? He couldn’t yell at Sherlock like that not even if he behaved like a stupid git. He knew how he was, and he simply couldn’t allow himself to be triggered like that. God, he should be ashamed of himself.  


He took the blanket from Sherlock’s chair and gently draped it over his friend’s body. It was still one hour until Mycroft would be back, enough time so that Sherlock could rest a little more. He would not be happy to see his older brother and it would not be an easy conversation. John just hoped that Mycroft would be a little wiser than him and not provoke Sherlock into working himself up into fainting again. He would have to keep an eye on that.  


He reached down once more to stroke over Sherlock’s mop of dark curls with a slightly trembling hand. He just wanted him to be okay, how could his friend not see that?  


With a sigh he withdrew his hand and once again started pacing up and down the living room. Every few seconds he walked over to Sherlock to check he was still breathing normally then he resumed the pacing. He knew his own pulse was probably quite erratic and he tried to take long slow breaths to calm himself down.  


Eventually, he went over to the cooker and turned off the heat. Mrs. Hudson hat turned it down before she had left so the soup would probably be burned only a little. He didn’t feel like eating now though, so he sank into his chair instead and poured himself a cup of tea. Sherlock was okay for now and he needed to distract himself.  


The tea tasted wonderful and John felt himself relax a little. He had some more and slowly, the stiffness left his body. He looked at Sherlock’s sleeping form, facing the wall and he felt a pang of regret and affection at the same time. It was truly exhausting feeling this way. He looked at his watch. Fifty minutes until Mycroft would be there. _Better drink another cup of tea before then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really don't know where that argument came from ...totally surprised me :)


	8. Chapter 8

After silently drinking tea and going over the details of their most recently solved case so his mind had something to do while he waited, John got up to check on Sherlock, as he had been doing again and again for the past forty minutes. His friend was still sleeping although he wasn’t resting as peacefully as he had been during the night. He was trembling and shifting, moaning in his sleep, tossing the blanket away from his body because, apparently, he was hot.  


John hadn’t dared to wake him again, he wanted him to regain some strength before Mycroft turned up. But now he needed to rouse him, Mycroft would be here in just ten minutes – on the dot, of course, he was the British government after all. He had briefly thought of calling Mycroft to tell him that there would be no examination. At least not today, Sherlock just couldn’t deal with that right now in his fragile state. But then he had decided against it. Mycroft would not have listened to him because he was just as stubborn as his little brother was, John knew that already. And he was an arrogant, pompous ass, too (just like Sherlock).  


But maybe he would show some compassion when he saw how weak Sherlock was. Maybe he would not press things and he could find another way to get that arsehole convicted. John sighed wearily. He just didn’t know what was right at this moment.  


Once again, he quickly checked Sherlock’s vitals. Strong but slightly erratic pulse. Slightly elevated breathing. Slightly hot forehead. Normal Pupils. Sherlock eventually stirred when he sensed John’s hand on his face.  


“W-what? John?” He opened his eyes and looked up at John, confused.  


“Yes, Sherlock, it’s me, “John said softly. He was determined not to let himself lose control of his temper again, no matter how much nonsense spilled out of his friend’s mouth. He needed to pull himself together, stay calm, and offer his support in a gentle manner. “How do you feel?”  


Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and at once his hand shot to his head as he winced in pain.  


“Headache?” John asked sympathetically and Sherlock simply nodded.  


“I’ll get you some paracetamol, just wait a second.” He hurried to the bathroom, grabbed the blister package of paracetamols from the bathroom cabinet from which he took two of the white pills and a glass of water. He handed them to Sherlock who downed the pills quickly in one swift motion, gratitude on his face.  


“What happened? Did… did I pass out?” Sherlock still seemed fairly disoriented., much too his obvious dismay.  


“Yes, in the middle of our very heated argument, “John answered guiltily. “I’m really sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn’t have yelled at you, I wasn’t thinking.” Sherlock looked at him in soft surprise and he grinned weakly. “Well, if I remember it right, I was yelling, too, so don’t worry about it too much.” John looked at him gratefully, glad that his friend didn’t want to linger on the delicate matter.  


Sherlock drank the rest of the water and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “So, do I remember correctly? Mycroft will be here soon?”  


John nodded apologetically. “Yes, he’ll be here any second now.”  


Sherlock groaned. “I really wish you would have found a way to keep him off.”  


“You know how your brother is, Sherlock. He wouldn’t have budged. And I think he’s right, for that matter.” Sherlock glared at him and John added quickly “Please, let’s not start arguing again, alright? You can discuss it with Mycroft, he’s the one bringing the nurse.”  


Right in that moment the doorbell rang, and Sherlock closed his eyes in exhaustion. He really didn’t seem very enthusiastic to see his older brother now.  


As John went for the door opener, he turned his head. “Please don’t work yourself up too much again, Sherlock. Your body still is weak, you’ll faint again if you overexert yourself.” Sherlock did not reply, he just stared into the empty space in front of him.  


John opened the door and a few seconds later, Mycroft once again stood in the doorway, behind him a middle-aged brunette woman in a nurse uniform with a blank expression on her face and a big black bag in her hand.  


“Dr. Watson, “Mycroft nodded at him politely and John stepped aside to let them in.  


“Sherlock, “he addressed his brother who didn’t even look up at him from his seated position on the sofa. “I’m glad to see you up and about. How are you feeling?” His voice didn’t indicate any sort of honest concern or sympathy for his brother’s condition, instead, it sounded as if he was asking a colleague or an employee how their day was. He sounded _polite_.  


“Please spare yourself your false concern, Mycroft, “Sherlock prompted quickly, his voice a sneer. “I’m too tired of your games.”  


“Well, well, brother mine, “Mycroft tutted, as he crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock. “Already back to being your usual sarcastic self, I see. Fine. Then let’s not waste any more time. I’d like you to get examined now.”  


Sherlock raised himself up from his position, managing to sway only a little as he got up from the sofa to stand in front of his brother and glared at him. He had to tilt his head back a little to be able to do so, as Mycroft was a few inches taller than him and he did so with his lips pressed into a thin tight line and his hands unconsciously clenched into fists at his side.  


“I don’t want to be examined, “he said through gritted teeth. “It’s not necessary.”  


Mycroft raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and John barely managed to stop himself from hurrying over to the two brothers and push himself between them. This wasn’t helping Sherlock’s fragile condition at all. But he knew they would just ignore him, so he stayed put, for now, observing them anxiously.  


Just now Mycroft was taking another step forward, using his height advantage to tower over Sherlock, in a blatant attempt to intimidate him. “And why, dear brother mine, “he said in his smooth but menacing voice, “don’t you think it necessary after having been sexually assaulted which is officially the necessary requirement for a rape kit to get done?” Sherlock winced at his direct words, but he didn’t draw back. The tension between them was palpable and for a few seconds nobody said anything.  


“Can I have a word with you …. _Brother mine_?” Sherlock spit out eventually and Mycroft stared at him for a moment, scrutinizing his face intently as if he searched for something there. Then he nodded slowly, and he followed Sherlock who had stormed off to his bedroom. The door closed behind them and John suddenly found himself alone with the nurse in the room.  


He cleared his voice awkwardly. “Would you like some tea?” he asked, and the nurse smiled at him politely. “Yes, thank you, “she said and they both sat down to have some tea together.  


Muffled voices sounded through the closed door and John tried hard not to try to make out the words but of course he couldn’t help glancing at Sherlock’s door every ten seconds or so. The nurse noticed of course be she just smiled politely into her cup of tea and did not comment.  


John expected Sherlock to have another fit and he was half-ready to jump in at any second should Sherlock faint again or need medical attention in any other way. If he really did faint again maybe it was better to send him to the hospital after all. Maybe it was better to be safe than sorry. Then again, Sherlock would most definitely not agree and would throw another tantrum then and there if not later at the hospital, and that too would of course not help either. John sighed heavily and looked at his watch. _Ten minutes they’ve already been in there. Should I check if they’re both still alive?_  


He was only seconds from bursting into Sherlock’s room out of sheer anxiety when suddenly the door opened and Mycroft stepped outside, his face slightly flushed, and triumph very visible in his wide smile. John glanced inside the bedroom and saw Sherlock sitting on his bed, his shoulders slumped down, looking defeated.  


“John, apparently, I need to be examined now.” His voice sounded tired and small. “Would you …. Would you mind staying with me during?” He didn’t look at John, apparently out of embarrassment and John felt his heart go out to his friend. _How the heck had Mycroft managed this?_  


“Of course, “he said, affection and compassion in his voice. He wanted Sherlock to know he always had his back. He knew it had cost him a lot to ask John for this, to swallow his pride like this and he appreciated it very much. Sherlock was impossibly brave, and John knew he could overcome this horrible incident if only he realized his own strength.  


Sherlock nodded his thanks, still unable to look at his friend. The nurse suddenly stood at the doorway. “Alright, Mr. Holmes, are you ready for the examination? I’m Nurse Wilkins, by the way.”  


Sherlock didn’t look at her either. “Yes, “he answered, his voice monotonous, almost dull. “Let’s get it over with.”  


He shifted to the edge of the bed as she moved to stand in front of him.  


“Can you describe what happened to you, Mr. Holmes, “Mrs. Wilkins asked as she placed her black bag on the nightstand and opened it.  


“I don’t remember it all, I was drugged with Rohypnol, four milligrams. There are only bits and pieces, images in my head, but …. not everything and not all put together, “Sherlock said, his voice strained. This was hard on him and he was very reluctant to answer but apparently, he had resigned himself to the task.  


“Alright then, Mr. Holmes, “Mrs. Wilkins said, her voice patient and calm. “Then tell me what details you do remember.”  


“I was at the pub with friends. I drank some beer and apparently it was drugged because suddenly I could hardly move my legs and arms anymore, I was dizzy, my head hurt, my vision was fuzzy. This guy got a hold of me and dragged me away. I don’t know where. I remember him …. touching me.” His voice broke just a little and John closed his eyes in sympathy.  


“Where did he touch you, can you recall that?”  


Sherlock took a deep breath and then started rattling down everything he remembered in a clinical voice, while his eyes were fixated on a spot on the wall behind the nurse. “He kissed me, and he sucked at my neck, I think. He bit my lip. He stroked me under my shirt, and he also touched my bottom. I think he scratched me, my hips, I think, and he slapped my face a couple of times. He pulled my hair. He bit me into the shoulder. I think that’s everything. At least as I can recall.”  


“Did he penetrate your mouth with his penis? Did he penetrate your anus with his penis, mouth, or his fingers?” she asked.  


Sherlock grimaced. “I can’t recall but my friend John here assures me he hasn’t.”  


“Would you like me to take a look to make sure of this?” Her voice sounded a tad softer now. “You were not fully conscious at that time, so maybe you just don’t remember.”  


“No, absolutely not!” Sherlock looked appalled. And frightened.  


“Did you fight the man assaulting you, did you struggle with him?” she asked then, moving on.  


“Well, of course, I tried, but as I already told you I was quite incapacitated.” Sherlock’s voice sounded irritated now, apparently thinking she had asked a dumb question.  


She just nodded, apparently unmoved by this implied criticism of her professionalism, and turned to her bag again.  


“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to take a few photographs now. I need to take a picture of every single trace he has left on your body. Would you please take off your shirt?”  


Sherlock sighed and took off his shirt in one swift motion. He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if he wanted to say, ‘get on with it’. John once more was shocked to see the collection of love bites, bruises, and bite marks on Sherlock’s pale skin, but he tried hard not to let it show on his face. Hot, red anger threatened to overwhelm him once more and he bit the inside of his cheek in order to keep it in check. It hurt and it helped.  


The room was silent except for the clicks Mrs. Wilkins’ camera made as she began to catalogue Sherlock’s body. She photographed literally everything, every mark, every bruise, everywhere. Politely she asked Sherlock to move into this position or raise his arm that way. Sherlock acquiesced to her requests without a fuss, although a sullen expression remained on his face the whole time.  


It was when she asked him to take off his trousers that he really looked unhappy.  


“Shall I go, Sherlock?” John asked quickly but Sherlock just looked at him quietly and shook his head. He pulled off his trousers and stood there with just his underpants on. His nakedness in combination with all the cuts and bruises on his skin made him look very vulnerable again and John felt such a sudden surge of protectiveness towards him, it almost hurt. He wanted this examination to be over. He wanted Sherlock to feel safe again, not to be poked and prodded by a stranger over and over again. He deserved some peace and quiet after the ordeal he had been through.  


The nurse took photographs from Sherlock’s lower half as well, although fortunately there weren’t as many injuries to detect there. Mainly a few bruises on thighs and knees, but there were the marks on the hips and bottom for which she had to ask Sherlock to pull down his underpants for a moment. John averted his gaze for this to give his friend some privacy.  


She then took off the bandage from Sherlock’s shoulder who could not bite back a pained hiss as she did it. The wound looked ghastly and John cursed inwardly. It looked infected and he really needed to analyse it more so he could choose the right antibiotics. She took a few pictures from that wound as well.  


When she was finished with the photographs, Mrs. Wilkins put on a pair of latex gloves “Alright then, Mr. Holmes, I have to inspect your wounds more closely now and take some swabs, collect a few samples as evidence of your assault. Are you okay with that?”  


Sherlock nodded again. His expression was calm, but John thought he saw a flash of fear in the detective’s eyes.  


The nurse began her examination and Sherlock grimaced his way through it. He let her turn and prod him without complaint. She took a few hairs from his head as well as a few swabs from every part of his body where he had been bruised, scratched or bitten. She took a few swabs from the bite wound which caused Sherlock to bite his lower lip in pain although no sound escaped him.  


When the nurse asked Sherlock to open his mouth so she could swab his mouth Sherlock shook his head. “I already brushed my teeth, “he said matter-of-factly. “That’s unfortunate, “she said with a frown, but he just shrugged.  


After a few more swabs, the most important ones the ones from under his fingernails, she was finished. She had collected every sample in plastic bags, signed and sealed, ready for analysing.  


“Alright, I’m done now, Mr. Holmes, “she said, “You can get dressed again.” Sherlock at once grabbed his clothes and hurried to put them on.  


“How much time for the analysis?” John asked.  


“Well, at least twelve hours, “she said, “I’ll get the information to Mr. Holmes’ brother and he’ll contact you. The most important one for now would be the swab from the bite on the shoulder. We’ll test it for bacteria or viruses that might have invaded Mr. Holmes’ system so you can adjust the antibiotic treatment as well as add more medicaments. Fortunately, Mr. Holmes has had a tetanus shot a year ago as his brother informed me, so we don’t need to worry about that. However, there’s still the risk of other infections such as HIV and hepatitis B or C.”  


“Of course. Thank you.” John nodded politely, but internally he bristled at her cool demeanour. It didn’t seem to faze her at all to speak of possible dangerous infections Sherlock might have caught when he was right next to her. _She must have done this a thousand times, at some point it probably just becomes routine._ He watched as she packed everything safely away.  


“I’m sorry for what happened to you, “she said eventually, as she turned to Sherlock one last time. Sherlock did not look at her, he had his knees pulled up to his chest with his arms around them and he was staring out the window. “Yes, thank you, “he said, without any emotion in his voice.  


She left and John followed her out to the living room where Mycroft was seated in his chair, staring intently at his phone. He was probably busy with some very important government stuff.  


He looked up at their entrance. “I suppose you are finished with your examination then, Mrs. Wilkins?” She nodded and he said “Splendid. Would you please wait downstairs for me? I’ll be with you in a moment.” She nodded again and after a silent assessing look at John, she left the apartment.  


“So, everything went well?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow and John nodded. “He didn’t cause any trouble?”  


“No, he didn’t, “John said, his voice a tad sharper. “He’s done what you asked of him. Let him rest now, he needs it, desperately.”  


“Of course, “Mycroft said, as he picked up his umbrella from where it leaned next to the door, “you do know that I did this for him, yes? He deserves justice even if he doesn’t see it at the moment. I think you agree with me that this is the right path for him?”  


John sighed. “Yes, I agree. But the drug is still in his system, he already fainted before you came and he’s….” He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock wasn’t in the room and he lowered his voice, “he’s very vulnerable right now and your way of waltzing in here and making demands is not making things easy for him.”  


Mycroft’s face fell a little. He looked at John quietly as he pondered his words then he said, his voice a tad softer than before: “Yes, of course. My little brother tends to ‘grind my gears’ so to speak. But .... it certainly wasn’t my intention to upset him. I am truly sorry he is so unwell.”  


John was surprised at this unsuspected admission of feelings. It wasn’t something you witnessed with the cold, unapproachable person of Mycroft Holmes.  


“Would you mind telling my brother that I hope he gets better really soon? And that I’ll be in touch.”  


“Of course, “John answered, and Mycroft smiled, this time thankfully and honestly. It made him seem unexpectedly … human and John felt a surge of sympathy for the other man. He too, like him, only wanted to take care of Sherlock because he cared for him, in his very own way. The emotionless older brother thing was just a façade, underneath it was concern and affection for Sherlock, John saw it clearly now.  


“Thanks, Doctor. Goodbye for now. “Mycroft said quietly, and he left.  


John lingered in the living room for another few minutes. He was still stunned by Mycroft’s unusual soft demeanour and he somehow wanted Sherlock to know about the sincerity of his older brother’s sentiment towards him. But Sherlock always seemed intent on writing Mycroft’s above-average time spent on watching over him off as proof for his compulsive need to control everyone around him, nothing more. He thought that Mycroft saw him as a rival, for they both were incredibly intelligent and Mycroft only claimed his brother’s talents for his own affairs because he couldn’t be bothered with the legwork, or so he claimed. Sherlock knew his brother valued his brainpower and thought that that was the reason the older man always had an eye on him and went to great lengths to protect him from potential and actual danger. He probably never realized that Mycroft might have other reasons to look after him – that maybe sentiment was also a key player in the matter.  


John sighed. Sherlock was so stubborn, and he was also obsessively immature when it came to his brother – that also applied to Mycroft. Those two would always indulge in their little games of power play, teasing and mocking each other childishly without realizing they really cared for each other. It was tiresome but John didn’t know how he could convince Sherlock of Mycroft’s sincere feelings for him. Besides, he heavily suspected Mycroft didn’t want his brother to know of these feelings if he even was really aware of them himself. This wasn’t the time to do take care of this delicate matter anyway, it was more important now that Sherlock got his rest. When this thing was over and done with, maybe he could bring up their relationship again.  


He made his way over there to see Sherlock half-sitting, half-lying on his bed. His back was leaning against the bedhead, his head fallen back behind his shoulders, his eyes closed and his right arm thrown over his face. He looked completely exhausted and John suspected he would fall asleep soon if he didn’t say anything.  


“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?” he asked quietly.  


Sherlock didn’t move a muscle. “Sure, John, fine, “he answered, his voice steady but also quiet.  


“I know you’re tired, “John said with a sigh as he stepped forward, “that must have been …. exhausting for you.”  


Sherlock didn’t react. It seemed he didn’t want to talk about the examination and John understood why. He felt honoured that his friend had wanted him to stay, that he needed him as a friend. But he also knew that it had been hard for him, to surrender his dignity – well, at least in his mind – and to let himself be subjected to this – again, in his mind – ridiculous examination. It meant a lot to John that Sherlock had been willing to let him be present for that, maybe it had even given him the strength to go through with it, he hoped so at least.  


“How did he do it?” he asked curiously. “Mycroft?”  


“Oh.” Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He threatened to call Mummy and Dad, tell them everything that happened. That’s of course an infeasible thought, so that’s that.”  


“Right.” John understood perfectly. Sherlock couldn’t possibly want his parents to know for they would come rushing down to London to look after him and they wouldn’t stop fussing about him for weeks probably. No, of course, that would have been too cumbersome to endure, and John gave Mycroft credit for thinking of something so simple like that.  


He changed the topic. “Would you now reconsider eating something?”  


“No.” Sherlock still hadn’t moved.  


That’s when the doorbell rang again. _Ah right, Greg._  


Sherlock let his arm drop from his face and looked at John in irritated confusion. “Who’s that now?”  


“It’s Greg. He still needs your statement, “John said apologetically.  


Sherlock made a noise that was something of a mixture of a groan and a whine. “Why, John, why are all these people harassing me? I – just – want – to -sleep, for Heaven’s sake!”  


John couldn’t contain the smirk creeping upon his lips. This was so Sherlock, throwing little tantrums like a small child instead of a fully grown man. It was a little cute, too. He felt warmth spreading out in his chest as he cherished the sense of familiarity of their routine: the bickering, the theatrical moaning, and him trying to tone his friend and colleague down. This was their thing. Well, this time was under different circumstances though. He lost the smile at that last thought.  


“I better let him in, “he muttered and left the bedroom.  


Greg appeared at the door with an anxious look on his face. “How is he, John? How was the examination, did he agree to do it?”  


“Surprisingly, yes he did, “John said with a tired smile which caused Greg to raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t inquire further.  


“Is he still in bed? Do you think I can go over there?” Greg asked nervously: He had never been in the detective’s bedroom as he preferred to let that room stay closed for visitors.  


“Don’t bother Graham, “a sharp voice said, and they looked up to see Sherlock leaning against the door frame. He was trying to appear casual, John saw, but he also detected the slightly trembling hand hidden behind his friend’s back as well as the tiny beads of sweat in his forehead. But Greg was not a very attentive man, most of the time, so maybe Sherlock could fool him.  


“It’s Greg, Sherlock, “Greg said with slight irritation in his voice but also a big smile on his face. He was obviously relieved to see his friend up and about. “It’s good to see you even if you still can’t remember my name.”  


Sherlock shrugged as if to maybe apologize but not really then he sat down in his chair and pulled up his legs again. Again, he reminded John of a petulant child and he caught himself smiling at his friend fondly. _How could anyone be so obnoxious and so endearing at the same time?_ Sherlock was after all this time he knew him still a mystery to him.  


“So, I take it you need to ask me some questions as well, _Greg_?” Sherlock looked up at the Inspector. “Could we please make it quick, I have quite the headache.”  


Greg looked at him surprised. “Alright, yes, of course, no problem.” He sat down on the sofa and got out his notebook. John also sat down, ready to intervene if anything unpleasant happened. But this was not very probably as this was Greg and not Mycroft, this would be much easier, at least he hoped so.  


“Alright, can you please tell me everything that you remember from yesterday’s events? And I mean everything, even if you can’t remember it clearly. I know there are many hazy things, but every little detail helps so please do try to be thorough.” Greg leaned forward as he waited for Sherlock to talk.  


Sherlock sighed heavily and it was obvious it bothered him a lot to talk about this yet again. “I will do that, Greg but I’ll only do it once, so make sure you’ll note down everything with care for I won’t repeat myself. Understood?” His eyes bored into Greg’s who seemed a bit taken aback.  


“Alright, I guess, “he said at last.  


Sherlock seemed content with that answer and began to tell his story again. He did it in the same clinical, monotonous voice as before with the nurse and he spoke even quicker than before, eager to get it over with. He showed no open emotions when he spoke of his abuse and his body didn’t betray any sentiment either – apart from the blazing eyes, John could not help but notice. There was something dark in them, something forlorn as he recounted how he had been touched, kissed, and bitten without his consent.  


After ten minutes they were done. Greg had taken quite a few pages of notes, hasty in his attempt to catch up with Sherlock’s rapid talking and afterwards silence filled the room, only disturbed by the still-scribbling noise Greg’s pen made on the pages.  


“Are we finished now?” Sherlock asked eventually and Greg nodded. “Yes, I think we are finished with your statement.”  


As Sherlock started to get up Greg spoke up again. “But we still have to file your charge against Mr. Taylor. Drug-facilitated sexual assault. We still have to do that.”  


Sherlock paled and John shifted in his seat, ready to jump in any second now.  


Greg noticed Sherlock’s hesitance as well and he leaned forward. “Sherlock, this is important. You don’t want that bastard to walk away free from this, do you? He deserves to go to prison for what he did you, that sick piece of filth.” Greg’s emotions finally seeped through and John spontaneously thought that it was probably prohibited that he filed these charges because he knew Sherlock and was biased. But that wasn’t important right now, what was important was that that monster who had attacked Sherlock was getting his comeuppance.  


Sherlock didn’t say anything for another minute, then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. John knew that even if Sherlock refused to file the charge Mycroft would press him more until he did so that must be the reason why Sherlock gave up now although he seemed to be almost at his breaking point.  


“What do I have to do?” he asked quietly, without looking at them.  


Greg’s face was full of compassion. He shuffled in his bag and found a printed form. “Here, I’ll fill that out with everything you have told me, you just need to sign. By signing, you’re accusing Mr. Christopher Jack Taylor officially of drug-facilitated sexual assault and the court will be informed. I have a picture of Mr. Taylor here with me, I need you to look at it and confirm to me it was him that attacked you.” He turned to John. “I need your statement as a witness, too, by the way. Maybe we could do that right after?”  


“Of course, “John nodded, his gaze still locked on Sherlock who seemed on the verge of passing out. They really needed to get this thing finished or he would break down soon.  


“Show me the picture, “Sherlock said, as he swallowed heavily and with a sudden determined look on his face. He still had some reserves left, it seemed.  


Greg quickly pulled out a photograph and laid it on the table. Sherlock looked at it and said nothing at first. His breath hitched, and he swallowed down another heavy lump. “Y-yes, it’s him, “he said eventually.  


“You’re sure?” Greg asked.  


“Yes, actually, I’m sure.” Sherlock shoved the photograph back to Greg. “I had a conversation with him before he drugged me and that I can remember clearly. He was right in front of me so yeah, it’s him and I’m sure.”  


“Okay.” Greg was satisfied. “Now I only need your signature here.” He shoved the form over to Sherlock together with a pen. Sherlock hesitated only for a second then he quickly grabbed the pen and signed the paper. “Alright, am I done now?”  


“Yes, Sherlock, you’re done, “Greg said. “But you should get yourself a lawyer, you’ll need one now.”  


“Yes, I’m sure my brother can take care of that, “Sherlock said sourly, and he stood up. “I’ll lay down now if you don’t mind.”  


Greg got up as well. “Of course, Sherlock, I understand.”  


Sherlock just nodded and walked towards his bedroom.  


“Sherlock, I have to give Greg my statement really quick, could you not go to sleep yet?” John called after him. “I need to take another look at you before you do that, alright?”  


“Yeah, yeah, “Sherlock didn’t look back and made an impatient gesture with his hand.  


John shifted his gaze to Greg. “Alright, let’s make it quick, I don’t know if he’s able to stay awake for long.”  


Greg nodded and pulled out the printed form for witnesses. Together they made quick work of the statement and were done after ten minutes. John signed his statement quickly and Greg packed his things to leave.  


“Alright, John, I’ll go now, please contact me if you need anything. And I mean anything.” John smiled at Greg’s sincere declaration and he nodded at him gratefully. “Thanks, mate, I appreciate that.”  


At the door, the Inspector turned around again, a thoughtful look on his face. “Do you….?” He started and John looked at him questioningly. Greg cleared his voice. He seemed a little embarrassed and he hummed and hawed a little before he finally spluttered: “Do you think that this was his first time? His first time experiencing …. you know, sexual things?”  


John frowned. He hadn’t even thought that far but of course Greg was right to ask this question. Sherlock had never seemed to have indulged in any kind of relationship while he knew him, and he hadn’t told him about previous relations he might have had with either men or women. They had had this awkward conversation at that Italian restaurant on the first day they had met where the owner had thought they were on a date and Sherlock had told him that women were ‘not really his area’. He had assumed he was gay then, but he had not seen him in the company of any man since then and he also couldn’t picture him with someone. Most of the time the detective seemed averse to physical contact and he despised the simplicity and lack of intelligence in most people, intellect, and cleverness probably being the most important thing he would look for in another person. That was if he was interested in any other human being as partners at all.  


So, no he didn’t think Sherlock had ever had any sexual experience which was quite sad even for him. And then to have him have his first sexual encounter – well, probably – turn out like this, being assaulted, being almost raped – it was simply awful and would probably ruin the man’s chances of ever engaging in a healthy, intimate relationship with someone. _Alright, stop it, John, you’re thinking too much ahead._  


While he was lost in his thoughts, he eventually noticed Greg was still looking at him, so he sighed and said: “I don’t really know, Greg. I hope it’s not, but it could very well be so.”  


Greg’s face was full of frustration, then it cleared up a bit when he said, “Maybe he should see a psychiatrist.” John raised his eyebrows skeptically. “No, no, it’s worth a try, he should talk about what happened to him, help him process it.”  


“Well, “John said, thoughtful, “every victim of rape or sexual assault has the right to counselling sessions with a therapist by law, so it would be paid for and it would be someone with experience in that matter.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think he’ll ever agree to that, you know what he’s like. He’s already trying to pretend it didn’t happen.”  


“Then we have to make him see that he’s not allowed to do that.” Greg’s face was grim with determination and John was touched by his investment in this matter. He really was a good friend to Sherlock, even if Sherlock was too blind to really see it.  


“I’ll see what I can do, “he said, his voice tired but grateful.  


“You should get some rest as well, John.” Greg said as he scrutinized his face. “You look really tired.”  


“Thanks, Greg, “John said with a smile, “for looking out for us. I’ll do just that as soon as he’s settled.”  


Greg nodded at him and he laid a hand down on John’s shoulder, squeezing it affectionally. Then he turned and left.  


John quickly grabbed his medical bag. He needed to examine Sherlock once more before he went to sleep again. He went into the bedroom and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, apparently waiting for him, his shirt was off.  


“Oh?” was John’s only comment.  


“You said to wait for me and that you wanted to examine me once more. So, let’s get this done quickly, “Sherlock said with resolution in his voice.  


“Okay, you’re right.” John made quick work of checking his friend’s vitals. The slightly elevated temperature was still a concern and he really hoped the result of the swab from the shoulder bite came back quickly so they could change to another antibiotic, a more suited one. The bite mark on the shoulder didn’t look too good right now but he couldn’t really tell yet if it was infected. He suspected so though. Sherlock’s other vitals were good, which was at least something. He gave him a glass of water to drink as well as another dosage of the antibiotics.  


“Alright, Sherlock, you can put your shirt back on, “he said, and he couldn’t resist patting his friend’s wrist fondly. Sherlock threw a surprised look at him but said nothing. He put his shirt back on and dived under the sheets.  


“So, I’ll let you sleep for now, “John said as he got up from the bed, “but I’ll wake you in a few hours to check on you again, give you more of the medicine, and maybe you can eat something then too, alright? You need to give your system a chance to reboot.”  


“Maybe, “Sherlock grunted, already half-asleep.  


John chuckled. “Alright then, good night.” It was only 3 in the afternoon. He went to the door but was stopped by Sherlock’s quiet words.  


“Thank you, John.” He turned and saw that Sherlock’s eyes, barely open, were focussed on him. “Thank you for everything. I owe you.”  


John’s heart went out to his friend. He sat back down on the bed and laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “No, you idiot, you don’t owe me anything, “he said with a tender smile on his face, “I am your friend and only did what every friend would have done.”  


Sherlock smiled and his eyes fluttered shut. “Nevertheless…. owe you.” And then he was asleep. John looked at his friend as he slept, and his arm moved up automatically to stroke the side of Sherlock’s pale face. “You really are an idiot, Sherlock Holmes, “he whispered and after another gentle squeeze of his friend’s arm, he got up and left the room.


	9. Chapter 9

John was incredibly tired so he decided he should better take the opportunity and catch some sleep as well. He wanted to be near Sherlock though in case he needed his help, so he decided to nap on the sofa. With the alarm set for two hours, he settled down with the blanket thrown over himself and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.  


When the alarm sounded, he startled awake, feeling as if he had only closed his eyes a minute ago. Yawning, he got off the couch and at once made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom. His friend was still asleep but apparently in the middle of a nightmare because he was tossing and turning from side to side, sweat dripping down his face and he was whimpering quietly.  


John was fully awake at once and he sat down next to his friend quickly. “Sherlock, “he called, “Sherlock, wake up!” When his friend did not react, he shook his shoulder which caused Sherlock to jolt awake as if he had been electrocuted. He looked around himself, startled like a deer in the headlights - but he relaxed the second he saw John.  


“You had a nightmare,” John started softly, but he stopped at once when he saw Sherlock’s depreciative expression. “What?”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re stating the obvious again.”  


John raised his hands dramatically in his defense. “Oh, I’m sorry if I offended you, Sir, please forgive me.” He grinned at Sherlock who grinned back after a few seconds, and warmth spread out in John’s chest once again. It felt nice.  


“How are you feeling?” John leaned forward to feel Sherlock’s forehead. Still a bit warm. Sherlock pushed his hand away, irritated. “I’m fine, John. Stop fussing.”  


And he scrambled out of bed. “What are you doing?” John raised his eyebrows at him.  


“I’m taking a bath, “Sherlock answered, already half out of the door. “I’m completely covered in sweat, it’s disgusting.”  


“Would you mind not locking the door?” John asked cautiously, “just as a precaution, so I can step in if something’s not right. And don’t make the water too hot, alright?”  


Sherlock gave him an annoyed look and he slammed the bathroom door behind him – not locking it and John sighed with relief. He understood his friend’s desire to clean himself, but he didn’t want to risk him hurting himself in the tub or passing out. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom again and started to change the sheets. Sherlock wouldn’t say anything, but John knew he would be thankful.  


Then he went into the kitchen and turned on the cooker. He really needed to eat something – he hadn’t eaten since his burger and chips last night and he was genuinely starving. He was very thankful for Mrs. Hudson’s vegetable soup, still in the abandoned pot. He would force Sherlock to eat something too. He had only eaten a handful of chips 24 hours ago and who knew when he had eaten before that. His body needed nutrients and it needed them fast. No backchatting this time.  


He had just settled down in front of the telly with a huge hot bowl of soup in his lap when Sherlock appeared, clad in his beloved blue dressing gown, thrown over fresh shirt and trousers, water dripping from his wet curls. He looked …. nice.  


“Mind if I join you?” he asked in a manner which almost could be called shy.  


John was pleased. If Sherlock was in the mood to watch stupid telly shows with him, that was probably a good sign.  


“Alright, “he said, pretending to be doing him a favour, “but only if you eat something.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes once again. “But I’m not hungry.”  


“You very rarely are, Sherlock, but as your doctor, I insist.” John’s look was strict as if he were talking to a little child. Sherlock pouted a little, then he shrugged.  


“Okay, toast then. I’ll eat some toast, will that be enough for you?”  


John harrumphed. “It’s a start.”  


Sherlock made himself two slices of toast and sat down on the sofa next to John, lifting his knees up to his chest like always. John immediately felt reassured by their closeness, by having his friend sit so near to him, have him be okay and breathing, and next to him. It was a good feeling.  


They watched one of John’s favourite soaps and Sherlock of course couldn’t stop groaning about the according to him ‘terrible acting’, the ‘badly written dialogue’ or whatever else was wrong with the production. He was leaning forward, sitting on his heels and dipping his toast into John’s second bowl of half-eaten soup, pointing and sighing at the TV in overly dramatic fashion.  


“Oh, how can they do that? They pretend as if it’s a mystery why Leslie didn’t show up at the prom but it’s clear as day – oh God, John, this is ridiculous, you cannot really like this!”  


John observed his friend from the side and just laughed whole-heartedly. For a moment, it was as if nothing had happened yesterday, they were just John and Sherlock, watching crappy telly on a weekday evening, enjoying each other’s company. For a moment, John could almost forget what had happened yesterday, that he had been incredibly fearful for the safety of his best friend like never before.  


When the show was over and Sherlock’s toast was gone as well as John’s soup, John asked mischievously: “Do you want to watch another one?”  


Sherlock sighed dramatically as he threw himself back into the sofa: “Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to do.” John just grinned and switched the channel. They watched that show for a while and this one wasn’t quite so funny. It was a sort of crime-documentary show and Sherlock watched it intently, for once desisting from making snarky comments every few seconds.  


After a while, John took a deep breath and looked at his friend, taking a chance. “Sherlock?” His friend didn’t turn his gaze away from the TV. “Hm?”  


“Would you….” _God, how does one start a conversation like this?_ “Would you maybe consider going to a few counselling sessions?” Sherlock tensed visibly but he still didn’t look at John. “Why?” he asked simply.  


“Well …. to talk about what happened to you.” John knew concern was showing in his voice, knew it would upset Sherlock, but he couldn’t hide it. He wanted his friend to be alright and he knew he needed help.  


Sherlock blinked a few times, a clear sign he was quite irritated. “No, I don’t see the necessity for that, “he said stubbornly, his eyes still focussed on the telly although his breathing had quickened and he was shifting uncomfortably, a little as if he wanted to put some space between himself and John.  


John leaned forward nervously, eager to make his friend understand his good intentions. “Maybe you don’t see it. But you can’t fool me, Sherlock, I know you’re not okay and it’s totally normal to not be okay after being attacked, especially if it’s under the influence of drugs. And you …. well, you….”  


“What?” At last, Sherlock turned to him, his mouth twitching, and John could see in his face he was really upset now. “What, John?”  


John’s heart beat loudly in his chest as he desperately searched for the right words to say. “W-well, “he stammered, “especially you should talk with someone professional, I think.”  


Sherlock’s brow furrowed and his eyes sparkled dangerously as he leaned forward, right into John’s space. “Especially me? What do you mean?” His voice, low and trembling, caused a shiver to run down John’s spine.  


John repressed the instinct to draw back and he met Sherlock’s gaze calmly. “I mean that you especially should get help after what happened to you. Because you …. well, you didn’t have any experience in sexual matters beforehand, at least that’s what I’m assuming, and you were all the more vulnerable because of that.” John exhaled shakily. He had needed to say that, but he also knew at once that he had made a mistake when he looked into his friend’s face. His eyes widened in shock and hurt as he drew back in one quick, abrupt motion, his shoulders tense.  


“Sherlock, please, “John hurried to explain himself, a deep feeling of regret pooling inside his stomach, making him feel nauseous because this was _wrong_. “I just want you to be okay. And it’s not okay to be touched like that, especially if you’ve never been touched intimately ever. I don’t want you to think that you cannot experience physical intimacy with another human being without being coerced into it or making it hurt you.” John’s eyes bored into Sherlock’s as he pleaded with him to understand him but something in his friend’s face told him that he had shut a barrier down. His mouth was a tight line, his hands were clenched into fists at his side.  


“So that’s what I am to you?” Sherlock gritted out eventually. His chest was heaving in deep, shaky breaths and he closed his eyes momentarily as if he were in pain. “A pitiful virgin, that needs to be coddled? Although I’m a fully grown man?”  


“No!” John was desperate now, this had somehow gone wrong. He laid his hand on Sherlock’s knee, but Sherlock jumped off the sofa as if he couldn’t bear to be touched by John. His eyes were glittering as he ran a quivering hand through his hair.  


“It’s alright, John, “he said, a sad smile on his lips, “I understand. You’re right, of course. I am a virgin and I am pathetic.”  


“No!”  


John quickly got up from the sofa too and grabbed Sherlock’s good left shoulder to make him look at him. “That’s not what I meant! Sherlock, you are not pathetic! You’re brave and strong and mind-blowingly intelligent, you are anything but pathetic!”  


“Don’t.”  


Sherlock took John’s hand from his shoulder, his grip steady although John could feel his hands were still trembling. “Please, don’t John, “he whispered. “You don’t need to say those things just to make me feel better. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m tired, I can’t do this now.”  


“But….”  


“Please. John, please.” Sherlock looked so weary all of a sudden, so exhausted and John swallowed down the heavy lump in his throat, his hands hanging mid-air in the space between them, already desperate to reconnect, to re-establish physical contact with the man in front of him. But he didn’t want to pressure him, so he nodded at last, and Sherlock closed his eyes in gratitude.  


“I think I’ll go to bed now, “he said quietly, and he started moving towards his bedroom.  


“Sherlock, “John called after him, unable to let his friend leave like this. “I’m sorry, please, I didn’t want to throw this on you like this, I’m sorry, I was too forward.”  


He strode across the room in a hurry and stopped in front of Sherlock whose eyes were glued to the floor, but John could see his fists stretched out at his sides, trembling slightly. They stood in front of each other and only their breathing was audible until Sherlock eventually lifted his head to look at John, his eyes shining with hurt and fear. A pang of guilt hit John in his stomach, twisting like a knife.  


“Don’t apologize, “Sherlock said hoarsely, and he smiled at John, although the smile never reached his eyes. Was there a tear glistening in the corner of his eye or was that a figment of John’s imagination? “It’s not your fault. Everything’s fine, thanks to you. I’m not mad at you, how could I be? You saved me.”  


“Sherlock, “John reached out, still desperate to touch his friend, but Sherlock raised his hand to stop him.  


“No, John, as I said. There’s no need to coddle me. You stopped a terrible thing from happening to me and I’ll always be thankful to you for that. But I’m okay now. You don’t need to worry about me anymore, alright? I’m fine.” He swallowed, looked away from John, unclenched his fists. Then he looked at John again and smiled. This time one could almost fool oneself into believing it was real.  


“Really.”  


John returned his friend’s gaze skeptically. He sensed that Sherlock was trying to hide his vulnerability, he knew that Sherlock could not be alright, but he also didn’t want to press the matter anymore. Sherlock was a very special person and he was John’s friend. He was not like other people, he needed his space more than anyone, John knew that. He would not force him to talk about this if he didn’t want to.  


So, he nodded as he swallowed another lump in his throat down. “Alright, Sherlock. If you say you’re alright, I believe you of course.” He didn’t believe him, but his friend needed him to say the words.  


Sherlock smiled in barely noticeable relief. “Thanks, John.”  


And he turned and walked away. John watched him as he disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He was left behind with a strange, unpleasant feeling in his stomach, gnawing at him from the inside. He felt empty and helpless and he wanted to do things about it but he didn’t know how.  


He dropped back down on the sofa heavily – the stupid crime show was still on, but he was glad for the background noise as he stared at the ceiling above him, it made his own thoughts not so loud inside his head.  


He was glad that they had not parted in dispute. If they had he knew he would have been unable to sleep all night, driving himself mad with guilt and anguish over how he had made Sherlock feel. He knew that his friend was still hurt by his words, but he had at least somehow accepted John’s apology and conveyed to him, that the two of them were okay.  


However, his mind was not completely at ease. Sherlock was traumatized by what had happened to him, but he refused to let his feelings how, he was unwilling to process what had happened. John knew it had been far-fetched to believe his friend would have agreed to see a therapist. But he had hoped he would maybe talk to him. To his best friend. That he would have enough trust in him to confide in him, to talk about his fears and anxieties. _Well, apparently not._  


He tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment and hurt eating away at him because of that. He tried to explain it with Sherlock’s complicated personality, that he was unused to confiding in someone, that he still had to learn how to trust someone like that. He, John, would have to show him how to do that. Or maybe he just had to let it go. Maybe he, John, had to trust Sherlock, that he was really fine and that he was dealing with it in his own way. Maybe returning to everyday business was medicine enough for Sherlock. He was strong. He had been right to reprove John for seeing him only as a poor victim.  


John slowly drifted away while all these thoughts were still swirling in his head. _Be there for him, that’s all he needs. That’s all that matters, be his friend…_  


He fell into a deep slumber at last.

////

“John! John, wake up!”  


“What?” John jolted awake at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “What is it? Are you okay?” He was in doctor mode at once, ready to jump and help his friend with a new injury, or a nightmare, or whatever else was ailing him.  


He had nearly fallen off the sofa, rumpled from sleeping in his clothes from yesterday. He was alarmed to see Sherlock standing over him, already dressed in a white dress shirt and black trousers, looking at him expectantly.  


“John! You need to get ready, quick!” Sherlock pulled him up by the arm. When John simply stared at him without making a move, he made a shooing gesture with his hands and when John still did not react, he shoved him towards the bathroom.  


“What? Sherlock, what’s going on?” John couldn’t process what was going on. _What time is it? Has he gone mad all of a sudden?_  


“We’ve got a new case!” Sherlock informed him and he sounded almost giddy with joy. “I’ve spoken with Lestrade and he’s got a good one!”  


John looked back at him over his shoulder incredulously, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoving him some more. “What are you looking at? Come on, we’ve got to get going. That corpse is not going to lie around and wait for us forever, you know. Quick, get yourself ready, I’ll give you …. ten minutes, then I’m out of here.”  


John’s eyes widened in dismay. “What? Sherlock, you cannot be serious! You can’t go on a case now!”  


Sherlock looked at him as if he were stupid. “Says who? Quick, the clock’s ticking!”  


He was manhandled into the bathroom not too gently and the door shut behind him. “Nine minutes and forty-five seconds, John,” Sherlock called through the closed door and John stared at it in disbelief. But then habit kicked in and he got in the shower, where he very quickly and efficiently cleaned himself. _Five minutes and ten seconds, that’s got to be a personal record._ He then quickly brushed his teeth and ran out of the bathroom, dressed in only a towel.  


Sherlock, meanwhile, fully clothed in his armour of suit, Belstaff coat, scarf, and gloves was pacing the living room. He glanced up when John appeared. “Four minutes and forty seconds left.”  


“I’ll be back in a second. “John jogged up the stairs to his bedroom to very quickly dress himself.  


Sherlock was already waiting downstairs when John finally came down his stairs again with his jacket on.  


"You’ve just made it.” His friend informed him and then he was out the door, already calling for a cab.  


“You’re crazy, you know that?” John asked, as he caught up with his friend on the street, out of breath from the hectic business of dressing and getting himself ready as if his life depended on it.  


“Yes, that’s what you like about me, “Sherlock retorted, and he threw a sly smile at John as a cab pulled up beside them. An undefinable but somehow nice feeling made John’s belly flutter unexpectedly, and he couldn’t help but grin as he got inside next to his friend. _He’s in a great mood. That’s good._  


He sobered down in the cab when he realized that Sherlock had not given him any chance to check his vitals or give him his antibiotics. Speaking of antibiotics, Mycroft should have contacted him with the results of the swabs. Maybe he had, he didn’t really have the chance to look at his phone either. He pulled his phone out of his jacket and saw he had a missed call from Mycroft, one hour ago.  


A text too. _I have the results. Call me. MH_  


“Damn, Sherlock, did we have to bolt like that, like madmen?” he muttered as he typed a quick text back – _I’ll call you in an hour, busy at the moment. JW._  


“You could have given us at least another hour to get ready without all this hurry. We didn’t even have breakfast.”  


“Ah, who needs breakfast, “Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “And no, we could have not waited another hour because by then, Anderson, Donovan, and all the rest of these blockheads would have ruined the crime scene like they always do and I wanted to prevent that from happening.”  


John looked at him as a thought entered his mind. “How come you talked to Greg? I thought he wouldn’t give you more cases at least for a few days…” At least he had hoped so, but apparently Greg had thought otherwise. He wished Greg would have talked to him, but then again, maybe Greg didn’t have the chance to do so, just like him.  


Sherlock beamed and he looked so carefree and delighted in his eager anticipation of the new case, it was adorable. “I called him right after waking up this morning, I was so bored. And you see, I was lucky, he had just had a call from someone who had found a corpse in a warehouse in Chelsea. I’d say it was fate, wouldn’t you?” And he winked at John. The strange feeling inside John’s belly made itself known again.  


John ignored it and grinned. “Yes, fate, apparently, “he said and chuckled. _Leave it to Sherlock to be excited by a murder as if it was Christmas Eve._  


Then he changed his tone to something stricter. “You know Sherlock, you didn’t give me a chance to check on you or give you your meds. As your doctor, I must say, I’m disappointed in you.”  


“John, you’re exaggerating, “Sherlock smiled at him. “I’m fine, you know I can deduce myself. My heart rate is normal, as is my breathing. Blood pressure is fine, no temperature I’d bet. No nausea either, so you can rest assured, alright?”  


John stared at him. “Well, I’d rather make sure myself. “He ignored Sherlock’s groan of exasperation and grabbed his wrist to take his pulse, then he went on to touch his forehead.  


“Well, you seem fine, although I’m not sure about that temperature, it still might be slightly elevated, “he muttered, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “Promise me you let me take a closer look at you right after we’ve seen that corpse, alright? Especially your shoulder.”  


Sherlock didn’t say anything at first but when John continued to glare at him, he sighed and mumbled “Alright.”  


“I’m only allowing this because I think some fresh air and distraction will do you some good, “John continued, fully aware of his mother-henning, “but you still need to take it easy, no running around, and especially no chasing after criminals, alright?”  


Sherlock just harrumphed and John took that as a yes. He knew he couldn’t do anything if his friend decided to go into full detective-mode, but he would stay at Sherlock’s side at least to make sure he didn’t overdo it. Hopefully, this latest murder wasn’t too spectacular.  


Finally, they arrived at the crime scene – a warehouse in eastern Chelsea, apparently. The place was swarming with policemen. John steeled himself to face a corpse at this early hour when Sherlock jumped out of the cab a few seconds before it even came to a full stop.  


“Sherlock!” _Great. Oh yeah, this was going great._  


Quickly, he paid the driver and scurried out of the vehicle to hurry after his friend. The same friend who was already in the process of ducking under the yellow tape, his coat floating ominously behind him. Sally Donovan was there of course, with her usual smirk as she welcomed him with a hearty “There you are, freak!” _Ah, good times, feels just like any day, solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes._  


But then he saw Donovan frown as she inspected the detective with a furrowed brow. “Wait, what happened to your face?”  


Sherlock blanched a little, but he ignored her for once and only asked “Lestrade’s inside?” at which she nodded. But she followed behind him and she tried to lean into his side. “What? Did somebody not like what you deduced about them and reminded you to be polite for a change?” she sneered. Sherlock just blinked and said nothing.  


John was inclined to give her a piece of his mind but then he saw Sherlock glance at him from the side, shaking his head almost imperceivably, telling him _don’t_. So, John pushed down the anger bubbling within him and simply followed them as they made their way to the warehouse’s entrance. _I’m just glad he has his scarf on, it’s covering all the marks on his throat. That would have been hard to explain._ They went inside the warehouse where Greg was already waiting for them.  


In the middle of the warehouse lay the body of a man on his back, with a hole in his forehead and a puddle of blood around his head – he had been shot, apparently. His face was frozen in an expression of naked terror and it chilled John to the bone. He would never get used to the sight of dead people, no matter how many he’d seen.  


He didn’t waste time to further analyse the scene in front of him, Sherlock would do so any second now. _Just give him three minutes with a corpse and the case will be half-solved already._ As Sherlock approached the body on the ground, his face revealing he was already in the process of deduction, John stepped to Greg’s side. The Inspector looked at him with a guilty expression on his weary face.  


“Why did you tell him of a new case?” John asked through gritted teeth and with a hushed voice.  


“I’m sorry, John, “Greg murmured, “I tried to tell him that there was nothing special going on but then he heard the sirens in the background, and he cornered me. What should I have done? Lie? You know that wouldn’t have worked, he always knows when I try that.” He shrugged at John helplessly and John gave an imperceptible grunt. He knew it wasn’t Greg’s fault.  


“I would have known about the case even without the sirens, Lestrade and you know it, “came Sherlock’s cool comment from the background and both men rolled their eyes at each other. Of course, Sherlock was able to simultaneously disassemble the crime scene in front of him and be aware of the conversation around him, too. Hardly anything was missed by the young detective.  


“I’ll let him do his thing here and then it’s back to Baker Street, “John whispered, addressing Greg while looking at Sherlock. “He promised me.” Greg gave him a skeptical look and John knew he had a point there. But he would press this, Sherlock was still in recovery, even if he didn’t want to admit it. John was especially concerned about the wound on his shoulder.  


Greg smirked at him, then he took a step forward. “Alright, Sherlock, we already know a few things because he had his wallet on him. This man is Maximilian Harrington, 43, divorced since last year, two children, works as a teacher in elementary school at Covent Garden, no criminal record. That’s all we’ve got but I’m sure you can enlighten us as to why he’s here and dead, so let’s hear it.”  


The detective was kneeling next to the corpse, his hands busy grabbing into the man’s pockets, looking at his hands, his face, at anything that would serve as a clue. John could already sense the excitement emanating from his friend, he was scenting the corpse like a bloodhound on a leash. The game was on. It was a delight to witness and John reveled in the sight of it. It was as if Sherlock’s excitement were infectious, every time Sherlock was beginning to truly get invested in a case, John would do so, too. It was the most natural thing in the world.  


Sherlock cleared his voice, then began, the words flowing off his lips in smooth, flawless rhythm as if they were drops of clear water. “This man was not a happy man. He’s slender but unfit, body fat has increased over the past few months, the muscles in his arms and legs are weak he used to work out before but not so much, probably got depressed after the divorce, his nails are yellow, a clear sign he was a chain smoker, there also signs that his cuticles were bitten at in regular intervals, he was nervous as well as unhappy. There’s a smear of lipstick on the side of his neck, it’s really small but it’s enough to tell me he has been with a woman before he died. Well, he was still unhappy, so it is unlikely he has a new girlfriend, so what else could it have been?”  


He reached into the man’s breast pocket and pulled out a black pen. “Interesting, “he mused, “this belongs to him, the killer would not have left it with him, so we should go to his house and see if there’s anything he has written with it but I’d say he has written a lot with it because it’s nearly empty and he’s carrying it with him which means this pen means something to him or the messages he writes with it do. Messages he probably wrote to the woman who left the smear of lipstick on his neck.”  


John was amazed by Sherlock’s deduction. Business as usual. It was like watching a magician do a magic trick in front of his audience: you couldn’t look away, you were totally entranced. You couldn’t explain how he’d do it and you desperately wanted to know but you never will.  


“John, “Sherlock waved him over without looking up from the corpse, “could you maybe take a look at him?”  


“Of course.” John kneeled next to Sherlock and relished the feeling of being here with his best friend at the crime scene of a murder, analysing the corpse together. It was kind of crazy. And it was truly amazing.  


He inspected the man’s face, looked at his eyes, his skin, inside his mouth. “I’d say this man has been dead for about ten to fifteen hours. The bullet hit him point-blank in the forehead, there's an exit wound on the back of his head, he was killed instantly.”  


“Which means the killer is a good and experienced marksman, “Sherlock deduced next to him. “And he is cold-blooded. This was no emotional crime, this was a deed to shut someone up, to get him out of the way.”  


“Why?” Greg asked. “He’s a schoolteacher, harmless, clean slate. Why would anyone who’s experienced in shooting people target him? “  


“Oh, it’s obvious isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, consternated. When no one said anything, he sighed in frustration. “Well, he knew something he wasn’t supposed to, a secret the killer didn’t want exposing and that’s why he was killed. It could be that he was killed by that woman with the lipstick, but maybe not.”  


John watched as Sherlock deduced the scene in front of him until there was nothing more to deduce. He was glad he had come here with him, it was obvious that this was the best thing to keep Sherlock from the horrible incident from two days before. But just as Sherlock was jumping up, declaring he had to go to the victim’s house and take a look at his stuff, John laid a hand on his chest to get his attention.  


“Now, now, Sherlock, “he admonished quietly. “You promised me you wouldn’t overdo it. I have to check on you and we’ll go back to Baker Street now that you had your fun.”  


Sherlock looked appalled. “But….”  


“No, Sherlock, I mean it.” John’s look was stern, and he didn’t even yield when Sherlock gave all he got by and tried his puppy face. It dissolved quickly when he realized John’s mind wouldn’t change.  


“Alright.” He gave up, looking very disappointed, and he addressed Greg. “Lestrade, could you please phone me as soon as you’re in that man’s flat? Maybe we could hold a video conference and you could show me his room…”  


Greg chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, you addict, I’ll get you your stuff but just get back home and do what your doctor tells you, alright?”  


Sherlock just glared at him and then at John as if he were accusing them of being in cahoots just to annoy him. Then he stormed off out of the warehouse and John followed with a sigh. _I think that’s it with the good mood._

//

Back at the flat, Sherlock was still pouting. He let John fuss about him, check his shoulder, clean and bandage it once again without any complaint but as soon as John was finished he retreated onto the couch with his laptop, probably already planning to contact Lestrade.  


John watched him type something into the keyboard while he pulled out his phone to call Mycroft.  


“Dr. Watson. I’m glad you _finally_ had some time to call me, I sure hope I’m not disturbing you in your _very_ important business.” Mycroft’s voice was calm and had only a trace of irritation in it.  


John sighed. Both Holmes’ brothers had a hang for the dramatics, really, he sometimes felt as if he was part of a play. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. I would have called earlier but we were on a way to a crime scene.”  


“Oh?” A hint of indignation.  


“Yeah, I know it’s a little early for that. But he initiated it on his own and I didn’t have the time to stop him. But I think it’s a good way to distract him from his own thoughts and we’re back home already, so you can relax.”  


“Hm, I see.” Mycroft didn’t seem to be I the mood for a real talk, apparently. “The results, Dr. Watson, would you like to hear them?”  


“Yes, of course, “John said quickly.  


“The bite on the shoulder is infected. Nothing too serious, but you should probably adjust the antibiotics and watch his temperature, he is at risk to develop a fever, I am told.”  


John sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. _What bad luck, of course this had to happen._  


“I’ll send you the details of the doctor’s report as soon as this call is finished. You should also know that the rape kit has produced significant results and we have collected enough of DNA that my team of lawyers reassured me will be enough to convict …. that man.”  


“Well, that’s a relief, “John said, and he felt grim satisfaction at the thought of that animal spending a lot of time in prison, suffering for what he had done to his friend.  


“Goodbye, Dr. Watson. I’ll be in touch.”  


A few seconds after the call ended, his laptop chirped, signifying it had received a new e-mail. It was of course the medical report and John grabbed his prescription block at once to jot down the recipe for the new antibiotics Sherlock would be getting now.  


One glance to the sofa showed a distressed Sherlock fumbling with his laptop on his lap. He was already in a videoconference with Greg who apparently was at the victim’s house, trying to find interesting things for Sherlock to look at.  


“I’ll be out for a minute, Sherlock, “John said but Sherlock just nodded absently.  


“No, no, I’m not interested in his kitchen, why would I be interested, for God’s sake? Try the bathroom, yes, that’s better.”  


John chuckled and headed out. Just a quick trip to the pharmacy and then he would force Sherlock to let him take his temperature, take his medicine, and eat something. Then maybe he would allow him to deduce more stuff Greg would probably be sending him in the next few hours…

/////

It was late in the afternoon and John had managed to get Sherlock Holmes to do everything he had planned for him. He had eaten some more toast, drunk loads, and loads of tea. He had taken his medicine without complaint, all while fumbling with photos and reports from the crime scene Greg had sent to him. John knew that it was best not to disturb him when he was concentrating like this, so he didn’t. He worked around him, pushed cups of tea and pills into his hands while Sherlock was rambling away, and it all seemed like a perfectly calm and nice day to spend together like this.  


John was just musing over the idea of suggesting going to counselling sessions again – now that Sherlock was in such a good mood again – when Sherlock suddenly jolted up from his chair, his eyes widening in sudden revelation.  


“Yes! That’s it, John, I’ve got it!”  


John suppressed a smirk very unsuccessfully. “Yes, Sherlock?”  


“The strawberry, John, the picture of the strawberry they found underneath one of his shoes! It’s from a business card. And where would you find a business card with a strawberry on it?” He rapidly typed something into his phone and after a few seconds his eyes lit up.  


“An escort agency, of course. A very distinguished one, one that not everybody gets access to. But it explains everything, the victim was in love with one of the escort girls and maybe she liked him back too much, which was how he learned about the human trafficking by chance!”  


“Seems plausible, “John mused. “Good job, Sherlock, better tell Greg about it at once.”  


“But…” Sherlock frowned at him, obviously displeased but he stopped when he saw John’s stern glance at him.  


“Fine, “he muttered with another pouty glare at John. He pulled out his phone and walked out of John’s view, into his bedroom. He came back after a few minutes, still pouting, and he threw himself dramatically onto the sofa, curling into a fetal position as he made it very clear that he was miserable, and that John was the cause of that misery.  


John looked at him and couldn’t quite suppress the chuckle escaping his mouth. “Come now, Sherlock, you know it’s a little early to chase after criminals. But maybe you would like to watch some fake criminal chasing on the telly with me?”  


Sherlock remained pouting, but he sat up slowly to indicate he wasn’t completely opposed to John’s idea.  


“Alright then, “John said with a smile as he switched the telly on and settled beside Sherlock. They found a show they watched from time to time and it had just started. Soon they were both looking intensely at the TV screen as the mysterious murderer was on the verge of killing his first victim. John settled back into the couch, careful not to touch Sherlock’s knee with his own – not that he would mind but he wanted to give Sherlock his space, he didn’t know how much physical closeness with other people was bearable to him right now.  


The murderer had just got rid of his second body when Sherlock suddenly jumped up from the couch. “John, I need to go down to Mrs. Hudson’s for a second. She wanted to give me one of her pig billows, the ones that are good for the back, and I’d really like to get it before I go to bed tonight, I think I’ll sleep better with it.”  


“Oh?” John was surprised. “He hadn’t known Sherlock preferred particular pillows. “Alright, I guess? But hurry, you’ll be missing out on the police catching that guy.”  


“Yes, yes, I’ll be quick.” Sherlock was already at the door and John’s eyes already back at the telly. He was really invested in the murder mystery and didn’t want to miss anything.

//

The police officers were just handcuffing the guy against his car when John realized Sherlock hadn’t returned from Mrs. Hudson’s. He looked at his watch, as he seemed to have lost all sense of time and was shocked to see twenty minutes had already passed since Sherlock left.  


_What’s he up to now?_  


He scrambled up from the couch so hastily he almost landed on the floor and he made his way downstairs to their landlady’s door, knocking on it with barely contained impatience as well as anger rising within him.  


“John?” Mrs. Hudson looked at him in confusion. “What is it, dear, you don’t look too well.”  


“Is Sherlock with you? Has he been here?” He just couldn’t keep the anxiousness out of his voice, and he was already upsetting Mrs. Hudson, he saw it in her face.  


“No.”  


“And you don’t know anything about any pillows, do you?” Exasperation creeped out from the edge of his voice and he grabbed the doorframe with sudden anger as she answered him, even more confused, “Pillows?”  


“That fool!”  


Mrs. Hudson flinched at John’s sudden outburst and he was sorry, but he was angry at himself for being so naïve and angry at Sherlock for being so childish and he needed an outlet.  


_I should have known. I should have known he is unable to contain himself in the face of such a good case. What a fool you are, John Watson._  


He pulled out his phone to call Sherlock but of course, he didn’t answer. Then he called Greg to ask if he had heard from the detective, but he hadn’t heard from him – obviously, he had faked calling the Inspector in front of John. _Typical._  


John wiped his face with his hand wearily. How could he find Sherlock now? He couldn’t let him chase after some criminals all by himself, and it was getting dark outside already. _Damn._  


Then he remembered. Sherlock himself had given him the clue he needed. Something about an escort agency, a prestigious one. On impulse he dived up the stairs, leaving the poor befuddled Mrs. Hudson standing by herself and he grabbed Sherlock’s laptop, still open on the kitchen table, where he scanned through the pages still open and voila, after a few seconds, he did indeed find the webpage of a highly expensive-looking escort service. Unfortunately, there was no legal info, just a black screen with a strawberry on it and a box below asking for a username and a password. He cursed and quickly called Greg, to ask for his assistance. It took a good five minutes of waiting in which he nearly dropped his phone because of his nervousness – when he finally got the address he needed.  


He bolted out of the apartment, barely taking the time to reach for his jacket, and then he was on the street, calling for a cab. He jumped into it, the second it halted, bellowed the address at the driver. They drove off and John sat forward in his anxiousness to just get there fast, get to Sherlock. He just hoped he could get there in time before Sherlock could do something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're not quite through with the 'hurt' part of the story yet....:)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning: violence/sexual assault in this chapter

The three-storey building was dark when Sherlock finally arrived at the right address. That is, except for a few lights in the middle storey, indicating that a few people were still inside. Sherlock looked at his watch: it was 6 o’clock. Most people would have called it a day now – those that were working normal office hours would, for that matter. But this was a highly distinguished escort agency. There were bound to be people in need of a little human contact at the end of the day and thus there was a need for employees answering the phone to arrange meetings.  


This was no problem for Sherlock. He would have no trouble staying out of sight, just keeping in the shadows while he was looking for clues. He could pretend to be a police officer – he still had Lestrade’s badge – and interrogate employees. In the past, he had often succeeded in intimidating witnesses with his confrontational way of rapidly deducing everyone and everything in front of him.  


Then there were the people he managed to charm into spilling the beans – he had come to the conclusion that quite a lot of people were susceptible to mindless, charming chatter, while others couldn’t fend off his on-the-nose flirting, a skill he had taught himself as soon as he had realized people seemed to …. respond to him in some way. He didn’t really understand the reasons for this peculiarity, but then again it wasn’t worth the effort thinking about it, so he simply went with it and used it for his work. As a result, many people were so overwhelmed by the simple presence of him that they ended up stuttering and stammering, eventually divulging secrets without ever having intended to do so. Sherlock just had this effect on people. Well, not on everybody, but for those that were strong-willed enough to resist his methods of persuasion he still had the police badge.  


But he wouldn’t need to use those methods today. Coming in at this hour would be suspicious, and he was sure if he rang the bell now, he would be denied entry. No, he could do that another time, today he would sneak in and try to find some evidence that this agency was involved in the doubtful business of human trafficking as well as the murder of the teacher, Mr. Harrington. It shouldn’t be too hard, he just had to find the offices of the upper managers, there would probably be enough there. Unless they were clever enough to hide their secrets somewhere else but oftentimes, criminals were not, so he needed to check this building first before he searched elsewhere.  


Of course, the door was locked. This also was no problem for Sherlock. His lockpicking skills were excellent, but he couldn’t do this so out in the open. He walked around the building and sure enough, there was a door at the outer back, behind the rubbish bins. A quick glance around him revealed no people in sight who might spot him. It was dark, it was drizzling and there weren’t many people outside. It was a good opportunity to break into a building.  


A few flicks of his wrist with the hairpin kept in his breast pocket and the door was open. Quickly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It was pitch-black inside, so his hands skilfully found the wall and he began to work his way sideways, his back against the wall. Fortunately, there weren’t any obstacles and he reached the room’s exit swiftly. He found himself in the hallway of the building and as there were no sounds indicating there were any people nearby, he took the stairs upwards. The first floor seemed totally abandoned so he decided there wasn’t anything of interest for him there. On the second floor, there was a light shining through from under the door of one of the offices, so he deftly made his way over there and crouched down next to the door.  


He could hear two voices, one male and the other female. They were talking to each other, but he couldn’t make out the words, the door was too thick. _Damn. Hm, I’ll just look for clues in the other rooms._  


He continued his way across the floor, still crouching down and glued to the wall, careful not to make any sounds. He tried the handle of the next door at the end of the floor. It was locked but after a few seconds he had picked the lock, opened the door and turned on the lights. He seemed to be in luck. It was a huge office with thick wooden furniture and expensive-looking carpets. A small bar in the corner containing bottles of whisky, vodka, and other alcoholic beverages indicated that the person this office belonged to liked to indulge in culinary pleasures. One of the upper managers probably, or maybe even more. _Perfect._  


Scanning the room for every detail Sherlock’s mind was already racing with all the information it fed him. But he needed to focus on the task at hand, so he approached the huge wooden desk where he would likely find something useful. The drawers were also locked and for once, Sherlock was not able to pick the locks. Apparently, someone was taking at least a little precaution.  


Frustrated, but simultaneously delighted that at last there was a little challenge for him, Sherlock looked around the room once more. There had to be a way to open these drawers. There was no safe where they could have hidden any important documents, so they had to be in the drawers, but how to open them?  


His eyes travelled rapidly from the big brown Chesterfield sofa to the shelves full of knick-knacks and the occasional book. There were exactly fifty tiny figurines of naked women collected on one particular high shelf – that seemed a little odd although of course, he was on the premises of an escort agency. Every statue was different, they varied in body type, skin colour, measurements. It took him precisely three seconds to make a decision – the room had given him all the information he needed. He took one figurine into his hand – a petite, Asian woman – and studied it.  


He felt nothing as his eyes scanned the naked porcelain body. The woman’s face was frozen in an expression of unashamed lust, her body arched backwards, her mouth open and her eyes closed: as if she were moaning in the process of experiencing unimaginable physical pleasures. There was nothing here that spoke to him. To him this wasn’t erotic, she simply looked vulgar, also her curves did nothing to him. Speaking of curves….  


His eyes lit up as he realized what was in front of him. He put his thumb on the right nipple of the Asian woman and pushed – sure enough there was an unmistakable sound behind him, indicating a mechanism had opened up somewhere. He rolled his eyes as he put the figurine back onto the shelf. _How tasteless. Really, this puts everything to shame._  


From out of nowhere a safe had appeared in the wall in a place where nothing had been before. A clever trick, he had to admit although it had been too easy to solve that little riddle. Well, people weren’t perfect, and it had taken him five minutes to figure out this little puzzle after all so that in itself was admirable.  


Opening the safe turned out to be disappointingly easy on the other hand. Apparently, it had been opened so frequently that he was able to pinpoint the combination just by looking at the worn-out tiny pressure keys. As he had suspected there was an impressive pile of documents within the safe, so he cautiously gathered it into his gloved hands, closed the door, and ducked behind the desk. He needed to scan through these documents, collect anything that might be important, and he had to do it quickly.  


After another quick glance at the door he started perusing the documents. After having looked at just a few pages his lips curled into a triumphant smirk. _This is just too easy, everything is in these documents._ Proof that the agency funded the costs of shipping people from other countries here, proof that they stole their passports, rental agreements, and layouts of houses big enough for as many as twenty people. _This is perfect, I just need to take some photographs and then I can get out of here._  


As he took some photographs of the most important documents the initial excitement of breaking into a building, sneaking around, and finding the necessary clues wore off. In the end, it had been too easy, this had been no challenge to him at all. Why couldn’t criminals make some effort to hide their secrets better? Then at least taking them down would provide him with some fun. But the really good cases turned up so rarely, they only came in once every three or four months, so he should have known this wouldn’t be difficult for him to solve. Oh well, at least this had given him the opportunity of getting away from John and all his mother-henning.  


_John._  


Sherlock smiled unconsciously at the thought of his best friend. The grumpy little army doctor could be a real piece of work with his unnecessary overprotectiveness. He wanted to strangle him for forcing him to step down and solve crimes from home instead of doing the real thing. But he knew John did it because he cared for him and although Sherlock had trouble admitting it to himself, he was thankful. Nobody had ever put so much effort into trying to keep him safe. Until John had shown up.  


Of course, there was Mycroft. He was a constant presence in his life, one that he tried to ignore most of the time because nobody could rattle him like his overbearing older brother. To be fair, Mycroft protected him from harm, if there was a need and he had pulled Sherlock out of dangerous situations more times than he could count - but Sherlock knew he did it because Mycroft needed him. Because of the government work, Sherlock needed to do for him. So no, that was not the same. Mycroft needed him and therefore protected him. Maybe there was some additional obligation due to them being brothers, sharing the same blood as well as some distant childhood memories, that played a part too.  


But it was not the same devotion as John’s. John truly cared for him and since he had somehow ended up working as Sherlock’s partner, he had been there for him unconditionally. He had shot a man for him on the very first day they had met. He had jumped Moriarty on that day at the swimming pool, ready to sacrifice himself for Sherlock. Sherlock had been deeply touched by that act and the bond between them had been sealed on that day if it hadn’t been already before. He couldn’t imagine a life without John anymore, they were the perfect team, best friends solving crimes together.  


Who would have thought that someone like him – someone who always clashed with other people because of the way he was - could find a best friend. All his life people had turned away from him, either because they couldn’t cope with his extraordinary personality or because they were simply fed up with him deducing everything about them all the time. People didn’t like to be reminded of their weaknesses, as a result, they couldn’t bear to be around him. Initially, many people were entranced by him. He had often observed how people were impressed by his presence, by his wits and if he was in a good mood, his charm. That’s the reason why he managed to get so much out of witnesses – they only spent a little time with him and if he didn’t overdo it, he could manipulate them into giving up their little secrets.  


But those few people in his life he spent more than a few minutes with – people at school when he was still a child, students at university, flatmates, neighbours, police officers – they all eventually realized that he was simply too much to put up with. More than once he had experienced people walking away from him in a fit, slamming the door behind them after declaring their undying hatred for him, thus ‘breaking up’ with him. It had always been fine to him, there hadn’t been any interesting relationships anyway and the few attempts at real friendship – one could better call them experiments - with others had been less than satisfying. It was tedious, people expected him to return favours, spend time with them regularly and were offended when he didn’t bother to respond to texts or preferred spending his time with dangerous experiments in the laboratory instead of going to the movies or to a pub. No, being friends with people had simply not worked for him in the past.  


That’s why it was so noteworthy that he had managed to find a friend in John Watson. It pleased him more than he’d liked to admit having someone reliable around him all the time. Someone who didn’t throw a hissy fit when the kitchen was cluttered up with his experiments and human body parts. Someone who liked to hear him play the violin. Someone who solved crimes with him because it excited him in the same manner than it did Sherlock.  


_Okay, Sherlock, what’s wrong with you? You’re getting ridiculously sentimental. Stop brooding, it’s exhausting. Yes, John is a good friend, now concentrate, you have a task before you and you must be quick._  


He shook his head as if to rid himself of the unexpected stream of thoughts coursing through his mind and he picked up the pace scanning through the notes, disposing of the useless ones effectively.  


_But why did he have to say that thing to me yesterday? ‘Especially me’ needing help…_  


He answered his own question: _Because I am a pitiable virgin. Because I was unable to defend myself from one measly stranger like some damn damsel in distress._  


Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. Where did this come from now? He was usually so focussed, so good at his job. Why was he obsessing over some stupid argument he had had with his best friend? John hadn’t really meant it, he had apologized, and that had been fine. Everything was good between them so why was he stressing out about it now? Why was he unable to bar the pitiful look John had given him yesterday from his mind? Why had he been unable to fall asleep yesterday until at least 3 in the morning brooding over the things John had said? He had been angry at first. Then sad. Then angry again for being sad. Stupid, stupid human emotions, they were just so tedious.  


_Okay, alright. Stop. Just stop, Sherlock. You can fret about this later, but maybe not now when you are procuring important evidence in the middle of a break-in. Come on, concentrate!_  


He bit his tongue and banned all thoughts from his mind, finally succeeding. After five more minutes, he had taken photographs of everything important. He quickly gathered all the documents and put them back into the safe. Now he only had to get out of here and the case was as good as solved. He sighed. Oh, how he wished it had been a bit more of a challenge, but _oh well, so be it_.  


_I have to get back quick. Maybe John still hasn’t noticed I’m gone._ He smiled to himself at the thought of his friend’s innocent belief that he had only left to get a pillow. It had been a little mean to trick him like that, but he just hadn’t been able to stay at home any longer while there was a moderately exciting case to solve out there. He just hoped John would not be too worked up about this, he could be quite tiresome when he was angry with Sherlock. Sometimes he wouldn’t even drink tea with him on those occasions, a fact that had resulted in him apologizing to John just so he would speak with him again. _Well, sort of apologized._  


Deciding that he really had to leave now, he looked once more around the room, careful to leave everything the way it had been, and then left. The floor looked the same and there was still light emanating from under the door on the other side. He couldn’t hear any voices though. He crouched down again and very softly made his way over to the other side. But just as he reached the staircase, he heard a noise behind him. Alarmed, he turned around but before he could see anything pain exploded in his head and his world went black.

////

He awoke again with a start. Seconds later he realized a glass of water had been splashed into his face to rouse him.  


“Wakey, wakey, Mr. Holmes. I think we need to talk.”  


_A female voice. Deep. Throaty, from a person who smokes regularly. Owner of said voice approximately forty to forty-five years old. Sounding …. threatening._  


Sherlock groaned, as the stream of deductions kept flowing through his mind as it was used to when presented with important data. But it was a little too much right now, as he was momentarily struggling with the seemingly infeasible task of simply opening his eyes. It hurt. As soon as he opened his eyes only a bit, stabbing pain assaulted his skull mercilessly and he was barely able to bite back another groan. His head was pounding, and his eyes had trouble focussing. _A concussion then_ , his mind provided, desperate to keep on analysing.  


_Breathe in, breathe out. The pain will subside eventually._  


He closed his eyes again and concentrated on simply breathing. After a few seconds he opened his eyes again slowly and although there was another stab of brutal pain in his head, it wasn’t as bad as before. The room he was presently in was only dimly lit, the only light provided by two standard lamps in the corners.  


The next thing he realized was that he couldn’t move his arms or legs. That was because he was cuffed to a very broad chair, in a way that his arms were spread wide, away from his body, and his legs more closely together. They had used real police handcuffs instead of simply ropes or cable tie. Unfortunately, this ruled out freeing himself of them on his own.  


He then raised his head a little to take in his surroundings, biting his tongue when the pain flared up once again. Right in front of him stood a woman. She was tall, slim and attractive, wearing a very expensive-looking black ensemble of a blouse, blazer and a very short skirt – _visits the gym four days per week, she’s obsessed with her appearance_ … Her long blonde hair fell down smoothly down to her chest – _she’s vain and afraid of getting old, wearing her hair open like a much younger woman would_. She had a heart-shaped, fake-tanned face with heavy makeup. Especially the bright red lipstick stood out – _she’s used to having her way, intimidating people with her sex appeal and money. But she’s getting old and she’s desperate to keep up with the young women threatening to take her place. She’s also struggling to be respected by all the men in power in this company, men that usually think of women as commodities. She’s only in this position because someone else made it possible. Either that or she’s simply ruthless and has done things to get this far._  


At the moment she was studying him with a slightly amused expression on her face although there was a hint of nervousness and impatience betrayed by the occasional twitch of her lower lip. Sherlock took advantage of the time she took to study him to quickly scan the rest of the room.  


It was a room he hadn’t been in before. It wasn’t an office and there was hardly any furniture. Just a sink in the corner and the broad chair he was cuffed to.  


Then he noted the tall, burly man in the corner. He was clad in a black suit and dark sunglasses, his arms were folded casually in front of him, although there was a gun in his hands, too. _Her bodyguard then. Or her lover as well as her bodyguard._ He was observing the scene in front of them calmly, but Sherlock was sure he was ready to jump in the second it was necessary. The lady was the boss and he was hers to command.  


Dizziness washed over him once more and Sherlock struggled to breathe in and out. His vision was slightly blurry, the room was spinning. He closed his eyes again and wished the pain away when he became aware of the blood trickling down his face. Apparently, the blow to his head had been quite substantial.  


“Are you done with analysing the room?”  


He looked up and saw the woman smile down at him condescendingly. He managed to raise an eyebrow and she chuckled. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I know who you are. How could I not? After all, you’re a super famous detective solving every crime in London and beyond. I’ve seen you in the papers with your stupid little hat on.”  


He simply glared at her. He felt the strain in his arms, as they were stretched to the side by the handcuffs and he wished she would just get on with whatever she was planning to do with him. His head was killing him, and he wasn’t in the mood for some villainous monologue. It was just plain predictable and thus, boring.  


She didn’t seem perturbed by his silence. Smiling seductively, she began to circle the chair he was bound to.  


“Imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when we found you here a few minutes ago. First, I didn’t recognize you because of all that blood on your face” – here she grabbed his face from the side and roughly smeared the blood on his cheek. “But then I did recognize you. You have a very distinguishable appearance, as you must know. You are a noteworthy man, Mr. Holmes. A delicious treat, one might say.”  


Her hands slid down his face and then brutally grabbed his jaw. “So how did I earn the honour of having you in my establishment? Did you have the sudden urge to indulge in the carnal pleasures for a change?”  


She laughed again, a brief harsh sound bereft of any warmth, and Sherlock couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine.  


“No, you’re not the type for that. You’re a workaholic. You’re not interested in something so ordinary as sex.”  


She stepped around him to stand in front of him again. Then she crouched down so that they were face to face. He felt her hot breath on his lips, smelled her expensive flowery perfume and he forced himself not to draw back, although he really wanted to. 

She studied him again as he stared at her defiantly, her eyes wandering from his eyes, to the blood on his cheek, to his lips, back to his eyes.  


“How come, Mr. Holmes, “she growled as her hand darted forward to grab his knee, causing him to flinch involuntarily, “how come you’re breaking into my establishment, breaking into my offices and stealing information from me?” Her face shifted nearer to his and because he didn’t budge an inch, he could now see the wrinkles she didn’t want anybody to see.  


He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward until their faces were on the verge of touching and made sure his eyes were focussed on hers. “Because you were simply so dumb and gave me the opportunity, “he spat out. “You had a man killed. You’re shipping people into this country in order to enslave them, force them into prostitution.”  


Her eyes sparkled with fury. “And how would you know all that? There was no connection between that man and us.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. “Oh please. It took me only one look at the crime scene and his bathroom to make the connection to your ‘establishment’. You have committed crimes you need to be punished for and I am the person who brings you that punishment. Why must you criminals always ask such stupid questions? It’s annoying and quite frankly, also very boring.”  


She glared at him, obviously annoyed by his defiance, by his unwillingness to feel intimated by her. Then her face broke into another charming smile and she lifted her hand to slowly trace the outline of his lips with her thumb.  


“Oh, you are a naughty boy, Mr. Holmes.” Without warning, she pushed her thumb inside his mouth, and he gasped in surprise. “In fact, you’re just the arrogant bastard they say you are. So rude.” The corner of her mouth curled upwards as she revelled in the triumph of having surprised him. For a second, she had seen his weakness. A cold sweat broke out on his neck, but he managed to immediately pull himself together and stare back at her as if her power over him meant nothing at all.  


Her finger left his mouth and she pushed herself up, her eyes never leaving his. She towered over him for a minute, that triumphant smirk from before still on her mouth. He used that time to rest his head for a second because it was getting heavier by the minute and he really considered sleeping a tempting option at the moment.  


“You were alone here, Mr. Holmes, “came the deep throaty voice from somewhere above him. “Please correct me if I’m wrong but nobody knows you’re here, right? You are such a reckless, arrogant man that you came here alone, without any help. No friend to stand by your side or rescue you ….”  


She looked at him expectantly and he thought of lying to her, but he knew his face had betrayed him because suddenly she laughed out loud. “I was right then. That’s good to know.”  


She circled him once more, her expensive heels clacking loudly on the ground. It was unhinging somehow, hearing those sounds behind him without seeing her. He cursed himself inwardly for being so thoughtless, he should have been quicker with the photographs. By thinking about the situation between him and John he had lost focus and made himself a target. _Stupid, stupid emotions!_  


“It’s a pity I have to kill you now, “she said as she stood in front of him again. “It’s such a waste. The extraordinary mind. The outstanding cleverness, wits, and charm. The …. surprisingly nice body.”  


Something in him froze as she suddenly grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. To his absolute horror, she then climbed up onto his lap, effectively straddling his hips. He gasped as she pushed her firm body against his and threw her arms around his shoulders, caging him in.  


“D-don’t, “he whispered hoarsely.  


“What?” She pushed her face forward and licked at his earlobe in a very provocative obscene gesture. “Are you not attracted to me? Is this boring to you, too? You don’t seem bored, honey. I can feel your heart racing, you know.”  


She began to place soft little kisses on his face, his cheeks, his chin, circling his mouth like a shark. His breathing speeded up automatically and he tried to get his face away from hers but could hardly move because of the handcuffs and her arms behind his head. He hissed in pain when she suddenly bit into his lower lip and pulled.  


She laughed when she saw how uncomfortable she made him and she continued, her mouth wandering downwards.  


“Oh, what do we have here?” she asked suddenly as she inspected his throat. “It seems I have misjudged you, Mr. Holmes. Apparently, you are interested in the simple pleasures of the flesh after all. I have the evidence right in front of me.” She traced the love bites and bruises with her fingers, down his throat. “Apparently, you like it rough. I like that. Maybe I shall play with you a little before I kill you.”  


Panic gripped Sherlock’s body, threatening to overwhelm him completely. He didn’t want her to touch him like that. He didn’t want her to invade his space like that. The weight of her body on his seemed to suffocate him, the closeness of her flesh made his skin crawl and he felt nauseous. But he couldn’t let her see his weakness. He had to be strong, so he willed himself to put a stoic expression on his face, to not let it show how much her actions were affecting him.  


She saw right through him though. “Are you going to have a panic attack, Mr. Holmes?” she asked in feigned concern, as she leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “Please don’t. That would be just …. boring.”  


His breath hitched and she drew back with a triumphant smirk.  


“I’ll play your game, Mr. Holmes, “she said as she began unbuttoning his shirt. His chest was heaving heavily now, as his trouble to breathe increased with every minute and his head was pounding, making it hard to think. He managed to keep up his defiant stare at her though although he could hardly keep his head up, it was so unbelievably heavy.  


“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she smirked, “did Danny here hit you too hard? I’m sorry, but we’re not used to people breaking into our offices so you must forgive him if he used a little more strength than should have been necessary.” She grabbed his hair in a sudden move and pulled it back brutally, which caused him to gasp in surprise and pain. “It doesn’t matter though. Because you will be dead in half an hour.”  


She let go of his hair and his head lolled forward in exhaustion. He flinched when she pushed her hands into the now open space between the buttons of his shirt when she let them glide upon his pectorals greedily, kneading the exposed flesh.  


_No. Stop. Don’t touch me._ His eyes fluttered shut as the sudden memory of other hands on his body, bigger and firmer, flashed through his mind.  


_‘You smell so good, darling, I could eat you up.’_  


_No._ He swallowed heavily and desperately tried to push the unbidden images out of his thoughts. In the back of his mind, he registered that his heart was beating like mad in his chest and his body, faced with overwhelming physical and emotional strain, was trembling.  


The woman on top of him didn’t seem perturbed by his increasing distress. She let her hands wander up and down his chest and throat and she obviously enjoyed the way it made him squirm beneath her.  


Then she found the bandage on his shoulder. “What’s this, sweetheart? Have you hurt yourself?” She ruthlessly ripped off the bandage and he had to bite his lip hard to avoid screaming out loud.  


“Oh, so you are an expert I see. BDSM? That’s sick, letting yourself be bitten like that. You really are a freak.” Her voice was soft and deep, but her words tore into him like steel and he choked down a sob as she began to poke at the damaged tissue of his shoulder with her fingers.  


“What, you don’t enjoy that? “she sneered viciously, “but I thought you liked pain.”  


A particular brutal push of her thumb into the wound made him rear up in pain and this time he couldn’t suppress the choked yell escaping his mouth.  


“I’m sorry, honey, “she said in a mock tone. “Maybe it’s a little too much for you after all.”  


She took her hand away from his shoulder and he gasped in relief. He flinched when he suddenly felt her hands on his face again. His breath came out in agonized, little puffs when she brought her face closer to his. Her hand wandered upwards to grab his hair again, holding him in place.  


“Kiss me, “she whispered, and then she surged forward, pushing her mouth onto his.  


Naked terror washed over Sherlock like a tidal wave. _I can’t do this. I can’t, it’s too much._  


Her tongue pushed between his lips and started licking into his mouth. Sheer agony made him flinch hard and he tried to push his head back, but her grip was strong, and she wasn’t letting him go. But he couldn’t go on, he couldn’t bear this, his mouth being invaded like this, he just couldn’t.  


_‘I’ll fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to sit for days.’_  


_No._  


He bit down hard.  


She screamed in pain as she pulled away from him. The man in the suit stepped forward quickly, but she raised her hand at once. “No! It’s fine.” The man went back to his corner albeit reluctantly.  


Blood dripped out of her mouth, from her damaged tongue where Sherlock had bitten her. She spat a clot of blood onto the ground, then she glared at him hard, motionless for a minute. He met her gaze defiantly, aware that his body was fully shaking now, as he was apparently going into shock. _No_ , he told himself, _stay here, you’re okay. You’ll be fine._  


At first, he thought she was going to strike him. But he after she had stared at him for a while a grim expression settled on her face and she approached him again.  


“You like it rough, yes? Alright, I’ll give you rough.”  


Suddenly there was a gun in her hand. Which she pushed into his mouth. “Open up, little detective. Or I’ll kill you right now.”  


On reflex, Sherlock opened his mouth and was stunned at the taste of cool metal on his tongue.  


“Suck it, “she ordered. All the seductiveness and playfulness were gone from her voice. It was cold and merciless now. Leaving him no choice.  


“Suck it like the good little whore that you are, “she growled, and he stifled a sob as she began to push the gun in and out of his mouth. Thankfully, he didn’t have to do anything – she did all the motions herself.  


He didn’t know why it affected him so much. He wasn’t afraid of guns and he had been in similar life-threatening situations before. He was not scared of this vile, stupid woman, why was he feeling as if he’d burst from despair and horror any second now?  


But then he felt his body shutting down. The pounding in his head got louder and louder, and he could hardly see anymore. His shoulder screamed in agony and his mouth was burning with the invasion of the gun. His heart was beating so fast, he thought he might be having a heart attack. But it didn’t matter anymore because he was slowly slipping away, and he was glad for it. He was tired and he just wanted to go to sleep. This silly woman could do her one-woman-show by herself.  


His head lolled forward but she pushed it upwards with the gun in his mouth. His head lolled sideways then, he was barely conscious anymore.  


“That’s it, little detective, that’s all you’ve got?” she asked in mock disappointment. “Pity. Oh well, seems it’s time to kill you now.” She pulled the gun out of his mouth and pointed it at his head. “Bye-bye, sweetheart. It’s been a pleasure playing with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for hurting Sherlock again, I guess ... I can't seem to stop putting him in dangerous situations.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for graphic violence in this chapter

"Can’t you go any faster?”  


John was highly irritated by the fact that the driver was taking the speed limit very seriously although the streets were almost empty. He looked at his watch, probably for the tenth time since he got in. They had been driving for twelve minutes now.  


“I’m afraid not, Sir,” came the cool reply.  


_Bloody hell._ Usually London taxi drivers could be relied upon to drive a little faster than usual, but today he had to be in the car of London’s most assiduous driver.  


Biting back a rude comment, John fumbled with his phone again. Maybe Sherlock would call, possibly to ask him to fetch him from somewhere because he had forgotten to take some money with him for the fare home. Possibly the escort agency had been a dead-end – it was past 6 in the evening already, so maybe John was lucky, and Sherlock had been unable to get into the building.  


Then again, Sherlock’s lockpicking skills left nothing to be desired, so that was highly improbable. He was probably still in the building, snooping around in some dark cellar looking for hidden boxes of evidence and John could just pray he hadn’t been discovered yet. Sherlock was exceptional at what he was doing. He could be quiet as a cat, and although he was tall, he was able to hide himself better than anybody. He was a true master detective and that fact was the only thing stopping John from going totally crazy right now.  


He was still mad at Sherlock for deceiving him as he had, but he was immensely worried about his safety now. Having him home, safe and sound, that was his priority now. He could scold him later and forbid him to leave their flat as a consequence of his actions. Maybe he would even ask Mycroft to help him in that matter. He still had to sleep or shower every so often - good opportunities for his friend to slip out of the flat again if he wanted to. But involving Sherlock’s older brother maybe wasn’t such a good idea after all. Sherlock would be really pissed at him and he wanted them to get along so he could look after Sherlock properly.  


Speaking of Mycroft, didn’t he say that they were under surveillance? How could Sherlock sneak out of the building without them noticing? Or maybe they had noticed and were following Sherlock right now? But Mycroft would have contacted him, if that were the case, to nag at him for not looking after his younger brother adequately. _No_ , John thought, _there’s nobody looking after him now but me._  


And Greg whom he had rung as soon as he had told the driver the address. He didn’t exactly know the situation he was getting into and it was always good to have a backup. He had his gun with him because you never knew with Sherlock but having Greg with him was even better. He was driving here at the same time that John was, in his own car and they would meet at the agency.  


_And when he’s back I’ll watch him like a female hawk watches her eggs no matter how crazy it drives him. I must have been mad to allow him to go look at crime scenes already, I should have known he is incapable of letting it rest when he has caught the scent of something interesting. _  
__

____

____

He brought his hands up to his mouth and blew into them as if he were blowing into a paper bag. He needed to calm down, it wouldn’t do anyone any good if he worked himself up like that in the face of potential danger. If Sherlock was right about this – and he usually was – he was about to confront people involved with human trafficking and murder. He had to have a clear head for that, and he needed to be calm.  


At long last the taxi stopped, and John jumped out, after nearly throwing the money at the driver in his hastiness. _Damn, still not calm. Pull yourself together, John._  


Fortunately, Greg arrived at the same time as him, parking his car right in front of the big neat building that apparently was the escort agency they were looking for. Of course, they couldn’t be sure that Sherlock was here. Maybe he had just gone out for a walk to vent. But that was very unlikely, and John was sure his instinct was right, telling him Sherlock’s mind was focused on the case and his latest trail had to lead him here, where the big bad guys were.  


“Hey, mate, “Greg greeted him, “you really think he’s here?”  


John nodded grimly as he strode up the street leading up to the building’s entrance, Greg falling in line next to him swiftly. “I’m pretty sure.”  


“Building looks deserted to me.”  


Greg had a point there. There were no lights on, so apparently, none of the employees or managers working here was still around. That didn’t have to mean Sherlock wasn’t here, though.  


“We better look for the back door, “he said and promptly turned around the building to find said door.  


“Okay, “he said, hesitating. “Here it is. I think we have to pick the lock.”  


“Let me.” Greg gently shoved him aside and made quick work of the lock with a paper clip from his jacket.  


“Good to know the police is as skilled as the criminals they’re supposed to catch.” Greg looked up to see John grinning at him.  


“Don’t tease, “he muttered, “it’s a nice skill, you have to admit.”  


John clasped his friend’s shoulder appreciatively as the lock clicked and the door opened. “I know. Good work, Greg.” He moved forward but was instantly stopped by Greg.  


“This door was very easy to open. I think it has been picked before.”  


A pang of nervousness hit John’s body and he flexed his hands for a moment, breathing slowly, to gather himself. “Yeah. Sherlock. Let’s see if he’s still inside and get him out before he runs into trouble.”  


Greg nodded grimly. The Inspector knew Sherlock’s tendency to run into trouble better than anybody. He had seen Sherlock ignoring danger first-hand, chasing after criminals without thinking, even provoking them although they were armed. He had seen him get hurt because of that but somehow that never seemed to deter the man from doing it all over again. But this time was a little different. Sherlock was behaving like always, but him having been sexually attacked just two days before, that was a new one. Sherlock was bound to be even more of an unpredictable explosive than usual.  


They entered the building and worked their way forward. Luckily, John had a torch with him which made it much easier to move without difficulty. They took the staircase up and found the first floor dark and abandoned. They split up, Greg staying on the first floor, John taking the second. When they found nothing and nobody there, they looked on the third floor but there was nothing there either. Everything was quiet, there were no signs of forced entry and no signs of a struggle. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.  


_Damn. But he must have been here._  


John was getting really anxious now. _Sherlock must have left already. Maybe he is already home?_ But somehow, he didn’t believe that. He tried to ring him once more, but again, there was no answer.  


“Come on, John, he’s not here.” Greg nudged his arm and John followed him back down the stairs. Their trail was cold now, what to do next? Maybe they should drive to Mr. Harrington’s house, see if Sherlock was there looking for new clues.  


_Yes, that’s the only other place he could be._  


With new determination John stepped out of the building and was on the verge of turning around the corner when Greg called after him.  


“John! Look at this!”  


He turned back quickly and knelt down next to Greg. He was pointing at something in the grass and John’s stomach twisted when he saw what it was: blood.  


He looked at Greg with a mixture of fear and anger: “He was hurt, Greg.”  


“That doesn’t have to mean anything, “Greg tried to calm him down, “maybe he hurt one of them, and he managed to escape.”  


John was not feeling all too optimistic. “Maybe they’ve taken him. Come on, let’s see if we can find more, follow a trail.” He jumped up and searched the grass for more blood as did Greg. After a few minutes, it seemed they wouldn’t find anymore and John was starting to feel utterly hopeless when he suddenly saw one tiny drop of blood. It was far away from the other one, right in front of the building next to the agency.  


“Greg, “he said quickly, “it seems they’ve taken him into this building. The blood’s leading right up to this backdoor. We have to get in and look here.”  


“On it.” Greg focussed on the backdoor of this new building and this time it was much harder to pick. John stood next to him, trying to give his friend some space but it was difficult not to yell at him to just get it done already. When the lock was finally picked, John pulled the door open, ready to jump inside but Greg stopped him once again.  


“Easy, mate, easy. We need to be careful, we don’t know how many people are in here.”  


A pang of guilt filled John’s chest. He had pulled Greg into this and it was his responsibility to act level-headed. “Yes, of course, you’re right, Greg, I’m sorry.”  


Greg clasped his arm in sympathy. “I know you only want him back safe. Let’s see to it that he does, shall we?”  


John nodded and they both pulled out their guns and entered the building.  


It was dark but there was a light at the end of the floor, indicating that someone was indeed here. John took a deep breath and made his way up the corridor, Greg right behind him.  


They made a turn at the end of the floor and found themselves in a sort of huge open space like a cellar. It was empty but they could make out voices from somewhere to the left.  


John nodded at Greg who nodded back and scooted to the other side of the room, gun raised. Now with both sides covered, they slowly proceeded forward, as the voices were growing louder.  


Suddenly, there was a loud scream, and John and Greg looked at each other in alarm. _Oh shit, what’s happening? That’s a woman screaming …_  


Hurrying forward, ducking behind two pig pillars respectively, they crouched forward and tried to see.  


A few meters away from them, there was a room which they could see into because there was no door. There was a woman standing there, her back to them and she was doubled over, panting heavily, spitting blood onto the ground. There was someone else he couldn’t quite see because she was in the way, someone sitting on a chair in front of her.  


Then she shifted and John’s heart stopped in his chest when he saw the familiar head with its dark, unruly curls hanging down. It was Sherlock and he looked terrible. He was cuffed to the chair, his arms spread wide. His shirt was hanging open, revealing pale naked flesh beneath, and the wound on his shoulder was without protection and bleeding. Sherlock himself seemed barely conscious. From his position, John couldn’t quite be sure, but he thought he saw blood on Sherlock’s pallid cheeks and his whole body was slumped into the chair like he couldn’t hold himself upright anymore.  


A jolt of anger shot through John’s body like electricity and he was about to jump up and barge into the room when he caught Greg’s eye and saw the man look at him with wide eyes, shaking his head. _Don’t go in just yet, we have to look for a good opportunity. Okay._ Greg was right of course. They needed to sneak over there slowly so as not to make themselves known to Sherlock’s attacker and then look out for a good opportunity to overpower them.  


“You like it rough, yes? Alright, I’ll give you rough.”  


Apparently, the woman had recovered from whatever Sherlock had done to her, and she was moving forward now, doing something. He couldn’t see, so he beckoned Greg to follow him as he crept forward, pushing his back against the wall, so he was at an angle that when the woman in that room looked their way, she wouldn’t see him or Greg.  


He processed forward, his anxiousness growing because he didn’t hear a sound and he was sure the woman was doing something to Sherlock. They had to be quick now or he would be hurt, that was obvious.  


They had nearly reached the doorway now. Very slowly, John moved his head to the side so that he could see what was happening in the room. He was still at an adverse angle, but he could see what was going on: the woman had a gun in her hand, and she had shoved it into Sherlock’s mouth. She was pushing it in and out, mimicking a very obvious physical act. Sherlock who was barely able to keep his head upright didn’t struggle, he just let it happen, but John could see the pain and humiliation in his shimmering green-blue eyes.  


“That’s it, little detective, that’s all you’ve got?” he heard the woman sneer. “Pity. Oh well, seems it’s time to kill you now.” She pulled the gun out of Sherlock’s mouth and pointed it at his head. “Bye-bye, sweetheart. It’s been a pleasure playing with you.”  


Something snapped in John right then and there. Without thinking he pointed his gun at the woman, took a second to aim, then he pulled the trigger.  


It all happened very fast then. The woman collapsed to the ground, her hands clutching at the bleeding wound in the side of her throat, two seconds later another shot rang through the room and John realized with sudden terror that there was another person in the room whom they hadn’t seen before because he had been hidden away from sight by the wall.  


Luckily, the bullet hit the ground between him and Greg, and a second after, Greg pulled up his gun and shot the now visible man standing in the doorway right in the shoulder. With a pained grunt, the man collapsed onto his knees, clutching his wounded shoulder.  


“Don’t move! Hands up!” Greg yelled and the man complied at once. The gun which had fallen out of his hands was kicked away by Greg who then quickly proceeded to handcuff the man. Then he took out a handkerchief and made a tourniquet around the wound with it, to stop the bleeding.  


John stumbled forwards, stepping over the bleeding woman on the floor who was desperately pushing her hands against her throat, trying to keep the blood in her body, trying to breathe.  


“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”  


John reached down to touch Sherlock’s throat, to check his pulse. He frowned when he discovered it was racing like crazy. He gently cupped his friend’s face and lifted his head to take a look at him.  


“Sherlock! Can you hear me? It’s me, John!” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open at the touch of John’s hands but only barely so and he closed them again immediately, wincing in obvious pain.  


“J-John….” His head lolled to the side, leaning into John’s touch and John’s heart swelled at the subconscious comfort-seeking gesture.  


“Greg! Can you phone an ambulance?” John was shocked to hear the panic in his own voice. He felt his heart pounding rapidly in his chest and for a second he was completely overwhelmed by the situation.  


In a sudden surge of rage he couldn’t control he leaned down and grabbed the woman’s collar with both hands, pulling her up and shaking her violently as if she weighed nothing. “What have you done to him?! What kind of a sick person are you?!”  


He felt his hands closing around her heavily bleeding neck to strangle her and he was grimly satisfied by her cry of pain, the feel of her wet blood underneath his hands, and the fear in her eyes as she struggled weakly beneath him. She was suffering a great deal, and at that moment, it gave him a strange sense of justice. He was glad he had chosen to shoot her in the throat - that way she would have to endure a lot of pain before she died - she didn't deserve to die quickly from a bullet to the head. The blood was still spurting obscenely from her wound and he figured she would be dead in about three minutes at the most.  


He tightened the grip around her throat and watched in satisfaction at her eyes widening in terror.  


“John! Don’t!” A hand closed around his and tugged. John stopped in his motions though the anger was still pulsing through his veins in a way that was nearly frightening but also strangely elevating.  


“John. She’s not worth it, stop it.” Greg said in a surprisingly kind and patient tone. “Look after Sherlock, he needs you now.”  


John’s hands relaxed at once and the woman fell to the floor again, twitching and making strange gurgling sounds as she tried to get some air into her lungs.  


“You’re right, “John said, blinking. Without another word he turned back to his friend who was still fighting consciousness, groaning in discomfort.  


John gently touched his right hand. “I'm going to lower you, Sherlock, alright?” He looked around himself frantically and then crouched down next to the woman on the floor to rummage in the pockets of her blazer. She was in her last breaths, but he just didn’t care. He found the keys to the handcuffs and made quick work of undoing them, although his hands were shaking considerably. Once he wasn’t held by the cuffs anymore, Sherlock’s body fell forward slowly. John caught him and lowered him to the ground, gently.  


He took off his jacket swiftly and positioned it under Sherlock’s feet to keep them elevated.  


“Quick, Greg, your jacket!”  


Greg who had just ended the emergency call deftly pulled the jacket off his shoulders and tossed it to John. John who had pushed Sherlock’s shirt to the sides to see if there were any new injuries on his torso and was relieved to see none visible, quickly buttoned the shirt back up and planted Greg’s jacket over Sherlock’s body. He needed to be kept warm now, Sherlock’s blood pressure was very low as was his temperature. He could already feel the clamminess of Sherlock’s skin, he saw the slight tremor on his body. He took the pulse again as he brushed the damp curls out of Sherlock’s face.  


“Sherlock! Are you with me?”  


Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open again. “J-John?” He seemed very disorientated, his pupils blown wide and John was pretty sure he had a concussion from the blood seeping down from his hairline and the heavy lump he could feel on his head.  


“Sherlock, “he urged him, “can you tell me where you’ve been injured?”  


Sherlock struggled to talk but then his eyes widened, and John just managed to turn him onto his side when he started to vomit violently.  


_Alright, definitely a concussion._  


He held Sherlock as his body was shaking with the effort of vomiting and he caught Greg’s face observing them, looking very worried.  


“Ten minutes, “he mouthed, and John nodded thankfully while he still held Sherlock’s head upright.  


Finally, the heaving stopped, and Sherlock was moaning quietly, apparently desperate to close his eyes.  


“No, Sherlock, “John tapped his cheek frantically, “stay with me, Sherlock, please.”  


But Sherlock’s eyes closed, and his body went limp in John’s arms. _Dammit. Why the hell are they taking so long?_ John pulled his friend’s head into his lap and was gripped with a frightening sense of _déja vu_. _Why is all this happening now? Would I have been able to prevent this from happening? What kind of a friend am I to let him be hurt like this not once but twice in a matter of days?_  


“Don’t fret, John. It’s only a concussion, you know.” John was pulled out of his thoughts by the low voice beneath him and his eyes widened when he saw Sherlock looking up at him with a weak grin.  


“Sherlock, “he said, grinning back despite himself, but the worried frown replaced the smile at once, “please leave it for me to decide when to fret, alright? Are you sure there’s nothing else? You look terrible, what have they done to you?”  


His friend shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No, there’s nothing else, “he said with a small groan, breathless with the effort of talking, “no need to worry about me. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”  


A hysterical giggle escaped John’s mouth involuntarily. When Sherlock arched his eyebrow questioningly, he shook his head in amazement. “Sherlock, you cannot be serious right now. You’re bleeding and in shock, but you’re already planning on taking on another case as soon as possible, aren’t you?”  


Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his slightly guilty expression gave John his answer. “Oh no, you don’t, Mister, “he said grimly, “you’re not escaping me another time, this time you _are_ going to convalesce.”  


“Don’t be ridiculous, John, this is nothing, “Sherlock muttered but then he winced in pain and he bent over to the side to throw up again, although it was only bile for his stomach was empty.  


John held him up again while he muttered to himself: “Yeah, I am being the ridiculous one.”  


He looked up and saw Greg watching him, trying to suppress a smirk. He raised his eyebrows as if to say _What?_ and Greg shook his head in answer as his grin simply deepened.  


The dry heaving stopped again, and Sherlock dropped his head back into John’s lap with an exhausted groan. “I’m a little tired, John, “he whispered, his voice raw, “can we go home now?”  


John resisted the urge to brush a curl out of Sherlock’s face. “The paramedics will be here any minute now.” Sherlock actually managed to roll his eyes, but he said nothing. They stayed like that until the paramedics arrived, with Greg hovering in the corner with the handcuffed bodyguard guy and John taking Sherlock’s pulse every few seconds because he needed to do something. The woman had stopped breathing a while ago and her corpse was lying in the middle of the room, her wide dead eyes staring at the ceiling frozen in agony. It was then that John noticed that his hands were red from her blood and that he had smeared it over Sherlock’s face and hair when he had touched him.  


When they finally arrived and put Sherlock on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face as a safety measure, at which Sherlock rolled his eyes once more, he was only allowed to ride with them because he was Sherlock’s doctor. He would have liked to hold Sherlock’s hand in the ambulance but didn’t of course. Instead, he was watching his friend’s face closely, observing if his condition was deteriorating in any way. He was worried alright, and he just wished they could drive a little faster to reach the hospital.  


At the hospital they whisked Sherlock away and told him to wait. So he found himself pacing the hospital corridor in the waiting area, wringing his hands in frustration, waiting for somebody to bloody tell him what was going on.  


He received a text from Greg meanwhile. _I’ll come as soon as I’m finished at the station. We need to talk. Greg _  
__

____

____

He didn’t bother answering. That wasn’t important now. So he resumed his pacing and tried not to bite his hand while he was doing it. Being separated from Sherlock was simply …. not good for him right now, it felt as if something essential had been taken away from him. He needed to be with him, only then would he be able to calm down. He took a deep breath and resumed his pacing.  


////  


One hour later and he was ready to walk up to the receptionist and scream at her if nobody came to inform him about Sherlock’s condition soon. A few people had looked at him as if he were mad and then he remembered his bloody hands. He must look like a total mess and if he didn’t do anything, they would probably call the police. He quickly went into the men’s room and scrubbed his hands under the cold stream of water, rubbing so hard that it hurt. When he was finally clean, he went back out and resumed his pacing.  


After a few more minutes, the wide doors of ICU opened and a tall young man in a doctor’s uniform approached him.  


“Hi, I’m Dr. Stevens. Are you Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes’ doctor?”  


“Yes, how is he?” John shook the other man’s hand impatiently.  


Dr. Stevens didn’t seem unnerved by John’s abrupt question. He was probably used to it. “Mr. Holmes needed six stitches on his skull. We’ve also done a CT scan, luckily there’s no swelling or bleeding in the brain, as far as we can tell. The blow to his head was quite substantial though, he’s got a nasty concussion.”  


John sighed with relief. _No brain damage, that’s good. That’s the most important._  


“No other injuries?” One could never know with Sherlock.  


“No, apart from a few scrapes and bruises, mostly on his thighs and upper arms. Ah, and the bite wound on the shoulder, but that is an old one, I understand?”  


“Yes, it is. But the bandage was ripped off, so I fear the wound has been messed with.” He was fuming with anger at Sherlock’s captors for being so cruel as to play with his old wounds, it was dangerous for the wound was already infected and could very possibly worsen if new bacteria had gotten inside.  


“Yes, “the doctor confirmed, “it did look very inflamed. We cleaned it, took a sample, and bandaged it anew. We can only hope the infection doesn’t grow worse. He’s already on antibiotics?”  


John nodded. “We’ll see if that works out for him then, but we have to watch it closely.”  


“Where is he now? Can I see him?” He knew he was not exactly presenting the proper image of the cool-headed professional doctor right now, but he couldn’t help it. He was worried about his friend, let the doctor think what he wanted.  


The doctor frowned slightly. “Well, there is a little problem actually. Mr. Holmes is making a bit of a fuss and we wondered if you could maybe calm him down? He really needs to rest.”  


John’s brow furrowed in irritation. “Of course.” He followed the other man swiftly into the ICU, down the corridor, into one of the patient’s rooms. There was Sherlock, sitting on the bed with his legs dangling down over the edge, naked torso and a bandage around his head, half-hidden by the mop of curls around it. He looked like he had gone through the wringer, the colour of his skin greyer than should be healthy, yet his friend was not resting as he was supposed to. A nurse was arguing with him or rather, Sherlock was arguing with her.  


“I don’t want to wear this ridiculous hospital outfit, you cannot make me do that!”  


The nurse seemed close to slapping him and John decided to step in at once.  


“Sherlock, what’s going on here?”  


His friend looked at him with obvious relief. “John! Great, you’re here, now you can tell them we’re going home.”  


John’s eyes nearly fell out of his face. “Are you nuts? You have a nasty concussion in addition to your infected shoulder wound. You’re getting into that hospital gown right now, Sherlock!”  


Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious! I don’t want to stay here! You know I don’t like hospitals!”  


John took a step towards him and tried to keep his voice calm. “Yes, I know that, but in this case, your health is more important than your wish to go home. Look at you! You’re on the verge of collapsing, how exactly do you plan on making it to Baker Street?”  


Sherlock looked at the floor, playing with his cuticles nervously. “I’m fine, John, “he said stubbornly, but it seemed the fight had left him. For now at least.  


John’s voice turned soft. “Look, Sherlock. I know you want to go home, I understand. But let’s keep you closely monitored for the night and maybe we can talk about when you can leave tomorrow, alright?”  


“So I can go home tomorrow?” Sherlock asked eagerly, looking up at him again.  


John sighed. “I never said that. I said we can talk about it tomorrow. But let’s not argue about that right now. You really need to rest now, doctor’s orders. I’ll stay here, too.”  


Sherlock seemed surprised. “Really? You don’t need to do that.”  


“Of course I have to.” That’s all that needed to be said. John turned to the doctor who gave him a look of gratefulness.  


“Alright, Mr. Holmes, I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, “he said, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed eye-rolling. “The nurse will administer some pain medication and we’ll hook you up to an EEG just to make sure your brain’s functioning normally. You really ought to sleep then and I’ll see you tomorrow at ward round.”  


Sherlock simply nodded and with another skeptical look in John’s direction the doctor left. The nurse tried to coax Sherlock into the hospital gown again and this time he accepted it, albeit reluctantly.  


“I’ll be right back, Sherlock, “John said, “I just need to make a few quick phone calls.” Sherlock just glanced at him and didn’t say anything, so John left.  


He pulled out his phone. As he had suspected there were a few missed phone calls from Mycroft. He made his way out to the hospital’s entrance to make the call. The fresh air helped him relax a little immediately.  


“How is he? What happened?” Mycroft’s voice was cool and steady like always but there was a hint of agitation underneath if John was not mistaken.  


“He’s fine, Mycroft, “he hurried to say, “he has a concussion and he’s in the hospital now but there’s been no damage to the brain.”  


“How did it happen?”  


“He’s been out on a case and he was caught snooping around by some … not so nice people.”  


“Hmm ….”  


“Well, I should say, Mycroft, didn’t you tell me we were under surveillance? How could this happen, how could he just leave our flat and not be stopped or at least followed by one of your people?”  


There was a heavy sigh at the other end of the line. “Yes, there has been some mishap in that matter. Apparently, one of my men worked two jobs without permission and has been so tired he slept in the car when my brother slipped out. He’s been let go, naturally.”  


“Good.” John was normally not so resentful, but this time it was different. “He could have been severely hurt. Well, he was but it could have been even worse.”  


“And where were you, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft’s tone turned accusatory. “I thought you were looking after him. What, did you fell asleep next to him on the couch?”  


John pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “No. We were watching telly together and he tricked me into thinking he was just going downstairs to fetch something from Mrs. Hudson.”  


“Oh.” John’s guilt and self-accusation were mirrored in Mycroft’s short reply.  


“Yes, I know, I should have known better, alright? Believe me, it’s not as if I’m not feeling guilty.”  


Silence. John expected Mycroft to get angry at him now, to raise his voice and tell him he was a bad friend and he should be ashamed of himself for failing Sherlock so. It would have been understandable. He knew how much Mycroft cared for his little brother even if he wouldn’t admit it openly and if something really bad had happened to him, Mycroft would have hunted him down and skinned him alive, he was certain.  


“Don’t blame yourself, Doctor Watson, “came the sudden unexpected reply. “Sherlock can be …. difficult to keep up with and even more difficult to look after. He has always been a stubborn brat who doesn’t see the danger until he’s already walked into it.”  


“Uhm….” John was surprised to say the least. “Thanks for understanding.”  


“Do you need anything? Is he really staying at the hospital?”  


“Hm, yes, he wasn’t exactly but I managed to convince him. He could barely hold himself upright.”  


Mycroft chuckled. “That’s my brother for you. He’ll claw his way out of a hospital if he has to. He’s tired now but watch out tomorrow. He’ll fight tooth and nail to be released.”  


John smiled. “Well, we’ll see if he’s up for that. Besides, that’s for his doctors to decide not him.”  


“I’ll swing by tomorrow. Tell him that, would you, Doctor Watson? It’s better if he’s warned in advance.”  


“Alright.”  


The call ended and John felt strangely comforted. Here was a man he didn’t like very much. A cold, distanced man who never talked about anything emotional, only about business. And yet, he felt as if they had just made a connection, simply by caring deeply for the same man. A man that was hard to look after and that was difficult to keep close and because this man was so unique and the relationships both of them had with him respectively were also very unique, they were somehow bonded to each other. It was strange because John and Mycroft would never ever have something to do with each other- were it not for one Sherlock Holmes.  


_He knows. He knows how special this man is and he knows how it feels to be so helpless. How it feels when you think you have failed to protect him._  


He had to sit down for a minute, feeling a little weak in the knees. He let his head drop between them, supported by his elbows and he closed his eyes. What a strange day it had been. He felt as if the world was spinning too fast. They still had to recover from Sherlock’s last assault and yet they were here at the hospital, after a second attack. How much could Sherlock endure? How was he really? He had even made jokes, seconds after being found by him and Greg, injured and nauseous, but still the one with the last word, the one with the great punchline.  


But John was sure he was far from being fine. He had refused to talk about that first attack, had been in total denial that it was normal feeling terrified after being assaulted. And now, a second attack. From what it had looked like, it even seemed to have been partly sexual as well. The way that vile woman had pushed her gun in and out of his friend’s mouth …. He felt sick just thinking about it. What was wrong with some people? He just hoped the damage done to Sherlock’s psyche wasn’t too bad, but his hopes weren’t very high. He had to ask Sherlock what exactly had happened in that room. He had to know. If Sherlock weren’t willing to talk to a therapist, that was fine but then he would have to talk to him instead. He was no psychologist, but he was his best friend and he had to force him to confront his fears. He had to be gentle tough, he wouldn’t bring the matter up too quickly. First, they had to get him out of the hospital and make him rest so that he would get well quickly. He would have to watch out that Sherlock wouldn’t slip out again. He would take two weeks off work. _Yes, I’ll call them tomorrow, right away. Sherlock will not be happy, but that’s the deal he has to live with._  


With new determination John got up from the bench, then he remembered Greg and sent him a quick text. _No need to come here. He’ll be asleep soon. Has a nasty concussion but no brain damage. Talk tomorrow._ JW  


Greg replied right back. _Alright, mate. Thanks for the update. See ya tomorrow. GL_  


John quickly called Mrs. Hudson to update her – as he had suspected she was worried out of her mind and he was barely able to end the call, repeating for the umpteenth time that Sherlock was in good hands and that he would probably be home soon.  


Feeling anxious for leaving Sherlock alone for so long – it had been fifteen minutes now – he jogged back down the corridor to his friend’s room. When he approached the door, he listened for sounds from the other side: such as Sherlock’s loud protests of being forced to eat stupid hospital food or that it was too chilly in the room or whatever. But it was eerily quiet.  


He softly opened the door and stepped inside. Sherlock lay in his bed, in the dreaded hospital gown, head lying on propped-up pillows, and he was hooked to an EEG monitoring his brain activity. The nurse from before was just handing him a glass of water and a small white pill. At the soft noise, Sherlock looked up and John was touched to see relief and a small flash of happiness in his friend’s green-blue eyes.  


“Hey, “he said softly as he approached the bed, “you’re all set for the night?”  


“Yes, it seems so.” Sherlock’s voice sounded very low and tired, he was looking as if he was already half asleep.  


Feeling the nurse’s steady gaze at him, Sherlock scowled at her for a second then he quickly downed the water together with the pill.  


“Alright, Mr. Holmes, “she chirped happily, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’ll leave you to your sleep then. Call if you need anything. Good night.” She left.  


John pulled up a chair to the bed, sat down, and leaned forward. “How are you feeling, Sherlock?”  


Sherlock glanced at him tiredly. “My head hurts.”  


“Yes, but I think they have just given you something for it, haven’t they?”  


“Yes.”  


John tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, make him really look at him. “Sherlock. Are you okay?”  


His friend raised an eyebrow. “Yes, John, of course. I’m fine. Everything’s good. I should ask you how you’re doing. Aren’t you mad at me for tricking you?”  


John smiled despite himself. “I should be. But considering the circumstances, I think I forgive you. We’ll have to talk about your coping mechanisms though, but that can wait for later.”  


Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, a small smile on his lips. “Hmmm … if we must.”  


“And Sherlock, I really do think that it’s necessary for you to realize how bad you treated your body. You were still recovering from the assault from two days before and now you have been attacked again so soon after.”  


“Hmmmm, you’re absolutely right.”  


“No, I mean it, Sherlock. You really have to take better care of yourself. You always run around, doing what you want, snooping around in villainous lairs and dark alleyways, no matter how many dangers you’re walking into but someday it’s going to bite you in the ass, and then you won’t be so lucky ending up with a simple concussion. I know its only _transport_ to you but without your body, there’s no place for your incredibly stubborn brilliant mind to stay in, so what good would do that if you ended up losing it? Do you really know what could happen to you when ….”  


The sound of quiet snoring pulled him out of his monologue. He blinked and looked at Sherlock, shocked when he saw the other man had fallen asleep. He stared at him for a moment then he chuckled at himself. _Leave it to Sherlock to escape this situation again, in his own way._  


He reached forward and softly took the empty glass out of Sherlock’s limp hand. Then he took off his jacket, hung it up, and stood in front of Sherlock’s bed again, glancing down at him. He was hit hard by the image of a sleeping Sherlock, looking incredibly vulnerable and youthful like that. He looked so … frail, especially with the bandage on his head and the bruises around his face and throat. One of his slender pale hands with the long, delicate fingers lay limp on the pillow next to his face and something in John’s heart ached at the sight of it. It almost hurt to look at Sherlock.  


Feeling strangely dazed, John tried to steer his thoughts into another direction. He thought of Sherlock’s tendency to forget his own safety, obsessed with chasing after criminals without thinking. Why did he always run off into danger, letting himself get hurt?  


_Because that’s what he is. Addicted to the thrill of the game. Just like you, John Watson._  


Suddenly unable to hold himself back, he reached out and stroked Sherlock’s bruised cheek. Just once. He needed that now. He needed physical contact to reassure himself of his friend’s presence. Sherlock would not allow that when he was awake, and John allowed himself one tiny gesture of selfishness. Although he always emphasized, he was not gay, he was not averse to touching Sherlock. They were best friends after all and touching each other haphazardly was normal. Brushing against each other’s shoulders in passing, clasping each other’s shoulders in triumph after a solved case, hitting each other in the face for other cases or running away from the police, handcuffed to each other …. It was part of their daily routine and John had never questioned or regretted it. In fact, he enjoyed it although it was a little strange to think about it. There was something about Sherlock that automatically drew John to him. Sometimes he felt like they were two magnets, unable to stay away from each other. There was no other human being John was so close to. Funny, that it was a man like Sherlock Holmes – socially awkward, arrogant, and probably emotionally damaged – that would become his best friend.  


His chest filled up with a sort of fondness that nearly overwhelmed him. His finger lingered over Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone for another moment, as he tried to regain his composure.  


_Sleep well, you idiot._  


A small knock at the door made him look up and he drew his hand back away hastily.  


A new nurse poked her head in. “Doctor Watson. I was just wondering if you were staying overnight. Because I could roll another bed in here for you.”  


“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, yes.” John was surprised at her thoughtfulness.  


“Alright, I’ll be back in a minute.”  


Soon she was back with the bed and also with a pair of slacks and shirt and a toothbrush, too. John was touched.  


“Well, you know, “she said and blushed, “you shouldn’t sleep in a chair next to your boyfriend, it’s not right. Here, I’ll put it right next to him.”  


_Oh._  


And indeed, she pushed the bed right next to Sherlock’s, so that the sides of their beds were almost touching.  


“Good night, “she whispered and left before he could thank her for her kindness.  


John shook his head, but he wasn’t exactly angry. He and Sherlock had been perceived as a couple so many times now he was almost used to it. _It’s no big deal, right?_  


He changed and brushed his teeth. Then he settled into the bed and found himself lying on his side, staring at Sherlock’s slack form. He was breathing peacefully, and John was strangely entranced by the steady rising and falling of his chest. _A man shouldn’t look so pretty when he’s sleeping, should he? And a man shouldn’t have such soft curls and ridiculously beautiful lips and…._ Okay, where did these thoughts come from? John was so shocked, he jolted upwards into a sitting position, breathing hard. His heart was beating in his chest like crazy.  


_Okay, you’re hysterical, that’s it. You’re feeling so protective of him, that you overcompensate by feeling too much. That’s alright, it’s normal. He’s your friend and you want him to be safe, that’s all._  


He closed his eyes and tried to make that funny queasy feeling in his stomach go away. What was wrong with him?  


He told himself to take a few deep breaths and immediately concentrated on his task. After a few minutes he managed to calm down a little and he settled back into his pillows. He was still feeling very strange: kind of excited but all the same terrified and he didn’t know why. But he couldn’t look at Sherlock anymore, it was too distracting somehow, so he turned onto his other side to stare at the wall. He forced his eyes closed and tried to relax although his body was stiff as a board.  


It took him nearly two hours to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write somehow. Getting the characters right, having John be that vengeful, Sherlock still snarky although he's hurt....I really hope I got it right.
> 
> Also, as you may have noticed, I've finally made a decision concerning the bromance/romance angle - I'm sorry if anybody's disappointed by that, but in my head it only made sense that way...  
> Anyway, please let me know what you think :)


	12. Chapter 12

John awoke the next morning to the familiar sound of his best friend complaining.  


“No, go away with that awful muck you call food! It doesn’t even look edible, seriously, where do you get this from? I wouldn’t feed that to my dog if I had one!”  


John’s lips curled up all by themselves and he opened his eyes with a grin.  


“Sherlock, “he said in a teasing tone, as he pushed himself a little upright, stretching his arms, “stop harassing the poor nurses. It’s not nice.”  


He could see his friend out of the corner of his eye sitting upright in his bed cross-legged and cross-armed, pouting at John’s words.  


“But it’s the truth, “he said sulkily.  


John chuckled and he waved the very young, scared nurse standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands, forward.  


“I don’t know if that’s true, “he said slowly, “but even if it was, you know better than to lash out at the friendly people taking care of you here, don’t you?” He looked at Sherlock trying to put on a disapproving face in spite of the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He couldn’t help it, he was enjoying the moment too much. Although they were at a hospital because Sherlock had gotten hurt yet again, the detective was being his usual unnerving self, and it caused John’s stomach to flutter with happiness. He needed that now, a little normality. Something to remind him that someday, they would hopefully both be back at their old lives, with Sherlock bitching about everyone and everything around him and John apologizing for him and chiding him time and again when he went too far.  


A warm, tingly feeling filled the pit of his stomach as he studied Sherlock while he was pouting. _He sits there like a five-year-old in a fit, but God is he cute sitting there like that. The way his lower lip protrudes, making a cute little dimple in his chin, the way his brow furrows, and his eyes glitter in resentment as if someone has mortally offended him by something simple as offering him food._ John inwardly smiled to himself as he pictured the way Sherlock liked to throw himself on their couch when he wanted to make a point, curling into himself, facing away from whoever had offended him – it was just so unbelievably adorable.  


“John. John, are you deliberately ignoring me? And why are you smiling like a bloody idiot?”  


John blushed as he realized both Sherlock and the young nurse were staring at him. He really was a bloody idiot, it seemed.  


“Ah, sorry, “he said with a nonchalant smile, “I was a bit away, it seems.”  


Sherlock studied him curiously with narrowed eyes. “Yes, it appears so. You looked about to start drooling, maybe you can eat my food then if you’re hungry.”  


He gestured at the tray in the nurse’s hands, which was laden with a bowl of (to be honest) unappealing-looking porridge, two slices of half-toasted toast, a couple of slices of cheese, ham, and a small cup containing an undefinable kind of jam. There was also a green apple, a cup of hot water, and a small collection of different sorts of tea bags from which to choose.  


“Looks quite alright to me, Sherlock.”  


Sherlock grinned. “Great, then it’s decided. You eat it.”  


The nurse bit her lip and blushed as she gathered all her courage and spoke. “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. We have another tray for Mr. Watson, as the accompanying person to you, he has the same right to breakfast as the patients. I’ll fetch it right away.”  


She put the tray down onto the small table in their room and disappeared to get the second one.  


John grinned back at Sherlock. “There you have it, Sherlock, I’ll get my own food. Now no more excuses, you will eat the food on that tray, Mister.”  


Sherlock’s eyes sparkled as he glared at John. “I will not.”  


John leaned forward on his bed. “Oh yes, you will, because I am your doctor and I am ordering you to.”  


Sherlock’s eyebrow arched up and he got that smug look he often used. “Oh feeling bossy today, are we? You can’t make me do anything.”  


“Oh, I can, and I will.”  


“I’d like to see you try.”  


“Bring it on then.”  


They were glaring at each other and there was a strange prickling vibe in the air between them, making John feel oddly hot and uncomfortable in his slacks.  


“Uhm ... so do you want your second tray of food now?” the timid nurse from before asked awkwardly.  


“No!” Sherlock said while John said “Yes!” at the same time.  


Her eyes darted nervously between the two men staring at each other like madmen.  


“Alright then, “she said, flustered. She quickly put the second tray on John’s nightstand and fled the room.  


At the sudden loud bang of the door, Sherlock blinked, breaking the gaze between them and he threw his hands up into the air. “This is ridiculous, John.”  


John scrambled out of his bed, grabbed a knife from the tray, and started to smear butter and jam on one of the toasts. “It’s not. You have to eat.” He offered the toast to Sherlock who stared at it as if it were something toxic.  


“But …. I don’t want to,” he said petulantly.  


John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock. You have barely eaten anything in the past few days. As normal as that is for you, sadly, the circumstances are not. Your body has been put through quite a lot. You’re exhausted and you need nutrition. You will eat your breakfast. All of it.”  


Sherlock scowled at him for another moment and when John did not move a muscle, he then snatched the toast out of John’s hand. “Fine!”  


He started to nibble at his toast and John tried not to look too smug, failing miserably. To appease his friend he pointed at the tea bags on the tray. “Which one do you want? We have orange pekoe, Darjeeling, peppermint and uhm …. earl grey.”  


“I don’t want any of these cheap pathetic tea bags!” Sherlock exclaimed indignantly but then John turned his strict gaze at him once more and he deflated visibly, muttering “Earl grey.” John bit his lip to avoid grinning and dropped the tea bag into the hot water. He put the cup on Sherlock’s nightstand as well as the bowl of porridge and the apple. Then he prepared his own breakfast, making some toast with ham and cheese and he slipped back into the bed to eat there with the food in front of him on the nightstand.  


“It’s really not that bad, Sherlock, “he said after the first few bites. “You’ve got to admit it.”  


Sherlock who was still battling his first toast but was slowly getting there, only glared at him once more but stayed silent.  


John’s face softened. “I don’t want to annoy you, Sherlock, I’m only trying to look out for you. You know that don’t you?”  


Sherlock glanced at him in doubt and only harrumphed.  


John tried again. “Sherlock. I was so worried about you when you disappeared on me. Again. I was going mad trying to find you, you can ask Greg. I only want you to be safe, don’t you understand?” His tone was different now, almost pleading and Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.  


“That’s….” he searched for words, “…. quite nice of you, John.” He smiled at John tentatively and John smiled back. They smiled at each other shyly until it suddenly became awkward and they both cleared their throats, looking down onto their plates.  


“So how are you feeling?” John asked casually. “How’s the head?”  


Sherlock frowned again but apparently, he didn’t dare lie. “It hurts like hell, “he admitted quietly.  


“Would you let me take a quick look at you?” John tried not to sound too eager. He knew that although technically he was Sherlock’s doctor, right now in this hospital, Sherlock was not his responsibility, but nevertheless, he felt the need to inspect him personally.  


Sherlock, however, looked askance.  


“Who knows when the doctors here will have the time to look at you?” John tried to make it more appealing. “I can probably tell you how high your chances of leaving today are.”  


Sherlock perked up at once. “What are you waiting for then? Get on with it.”  


John swallowed the last bite of his toast and drank the rest of his cup of tea. “Feeling bossy today, are we?” he retorted and winked at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow, clearly confused at John’s repetition of his punchline from earlier.  


He slowly got off the bed and stepped over to Sherlock’s. “May I?” he asked softly, and Sherlock nodded, apparently surprised that John would ask his permission to touch him even after he had urged him to examine him. He reached out and gently took Sherlock’s wrist into his hand, checking the pulse. Then he leaned forward to look at Sherlock’s pupils, holding him steady by a soft grip of his chin. He tried not to think about how nice it felt to touch him and how near they were to each other. Sherlock’s eyes followed his every movement and he seemed to hold his breath as he waited for John’s conclusion.  


“Please follow my finger with your eyes.”  


Sherlock did. John released him and took a little step back. “On a scale of 1-10, how much does the head hurt?”  


Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment and John knew exactly what was going on his head. If Sherlock told John a too high number, he would probably not be released today. If he lied, though, John would see right through him – Sherlock was a terrible liar, at least in John’s eyes – and he would probably make him stay here just out of principle.  


“Seven.”  


John nodded. “Do you feel nauseous?”  


Sherlock responded at once. “No.”  


“Dizzy?”  


“No.”  


“Tired?”  


“Yes.”  


“Tell me, what is my name, my rank, my birthday, my favourite colour.”  


“John Hamish Watson, Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, born September 8th, 1971, your favourite colour is blue.”  


John grinned. “Good. Now, what can you deduce about me this morning? But be gentle please, will you?”  


Sherlock who had just started to speak stopped and looked at John suspiciously. Then he rattled off: “You’re in a good mood today which your enthusiasm for this disgusting food proves, you’ve already devoured everything in under five minutes, so that’s quite the appetite. And this although you haven’t slept enough this night, just barely over five hours which means you had trouble falling asleep last night because I was already asleep by approximately 10 o'clock …. Which means you lay there awake, worrying about me probably. Or you were worried about the damage these horrible hospital beds would do to your back after spending the night in one of them. Apparently, you were in luck, because your back seems fine and there’s a spring in your step proving you’re feeling quite rested although the wrinkles under eyes tell me your body would like a nap today, preferably around midday, if you don’t get one you’ll get irritable in the afternoon. You liked the porridge and the toast but you found the tea hideous which you didn’t want to admit in front of me so you put on a show of liking it although I saw you wincing and scrunching up your nose, really John, do you think I’m blind?”  


As Sherlock was rushing through his deductions, John’s belly filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling and he felt a wave of fondness wash over him. How could anybody be such an arrogant, nosy bastard but so endearing at the same time? At the same time, he got lost at the look of Sherlock’s lips, moving rapidly through the monologue. _Looking so incredibly plush, and soft, and wet, as if they were made to be kissed …_  


“John. Did you listen to me at all?” Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of John’s face, startling John out of his thoughts.  


“Oh. Right, sorry. Yes, I listened to you, “he said quickly, a little embarrassed. “You got everything right, congratulations.” Sherlock looked smug and John felt the need to add “I was worried about you, of course, you daft sod, not about the bed. I’m a little hurt that wasn’t obvious to you.”  


He tried very hard not to think of the strange things that had occupied his mind last night. Sherlock was right about John worrying about him, but he didn’t know that he wasn’t only worrying about his health but other things, too. Like the way, Sherlock looked absolutely beautiful and breathtaking and the fact that he was apparently obsessed with him.  


He swallowed, looked up, afraid to see Sherlock deducing everything about John’s apparent infatuation with him at once. But there was only irritation in Sherlock’s eyes, as well as confusion. That was good because John was completely confused and irritated about his own thoughts and he didn’t want Sherlock to deduce it until he had figured it out himself.  


“Right, “he said, switching to his doctor's voice, “your pupils are still a little unfocussed, but that’s fairly normal with a concussion that heavy. But it’s a good sign you’re not nauseous or dizzy anymore. Your memory seems fine as well as your cognitive skills. Obviously, we still need to take a look at the results of your EEG, but I think the probability of you leaving the hospital today is quite high.”  


“Really?” Sherlock’s whole face lit up and John felt his skin tingling at the sight of it.  


“I can’t promise you anything, but I have a good feeling, “he said with a smile.  


Sherlock was obviously overjoyed by this, so much that he grabbed his second toast and bit into it with gusto.  


“That’s the spirit, “John observed and laughed.  


That’s when a nurse poked her head in. “Mr. Holmes, I’ll be by in just in a few minutes to check your vitals and give you more pain medicine if you need it.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes at that but John knew he was eager to get out of here so he would try and behave. When the nurse came to repeat what John had done a few minutes ago, Sherlock didn’t resist and when she asked if he wanted another pill, he thanked her and confirmed.  


“Alright, here you go, “She said as she handed him the two white pills. “Ward round has already started, they’ll be here within the next hours.”  


She left and Sherlock stared at John in exasperation. “Hours? Are they serious?”  


John shrugged. “There are a lot of patients here the doctors have to look at. You’re not the only person getting himself hurt, you know.”  


Sherlock pouted again. “Well, I don’t understand, if it’s not that important then you could just talk to them, let them release me. Right?”  


“You know it’s not that easy.”  


Sherlock bit his lip in frustration which John again found irritatingly endearing. He pushed the cup of tea towards him. “Here, drink it, it will do you good.”  


Sherlock made a sound that was clearly meant to demonstrate his revulsion but then he took the cup and drained it in one go. He put it down onto his nightstand rather firmly and looked at John with an expression that said _There, happy now?_ and John just grinned.  


“Let’s watch some telly, shall we?” he suggested and before Sherlock could answer, he switched the telly on to some daily telenovela. Sherlock sighed dramatically but his eyes were drawn to the screen nevertheless and John breathed a sigh of relief that his friend would be occupied until the doctor would turn up.  


He forced himself not to steal some glances at Sherlock’s direction and focus on the television screen instead. He just hoped the doctors would be here soon, he knew his friend wouldn’t cope well with being made to wait. Being forced to endure uselessness as well as boredom – that was almost completely unbearable, as the walls in their flat could very well attest to.  


Unfortunately, the doctors seemed to have started ward round at the very end of the hospital. After a while, John tried to distract himself by taking a quick shower, brushing his teeth. Sherlock was still connected to the EEG and thus was stuck in his bed which annoyed him endlessly. John took pity on him and brought him one of the fresh toothbrushes from the bathroom and an empty cup that he could at least brush his teeth with. Afterwards it was back to watching telly again. It was almost 10 o’clock when Sherlock suddenly jumped from the bed, ripping off the electrodes connected to his head, throwing them onto the bed with violent fury.  


“Sherlock, what are you doing, stop that!” John jumped off his bed and tried to grab Sherlock’s hands, but was pushed away immediately.  


“I can’t wait anymore, John! I have to get out of here!” Sherlock’s chest was heaving in anxiety, his voice sounding desperate and John raised his hands in an attempt to calm him down as he tried to make eye contact.  


“Sherlock. I understand, I do, but you have to calm down. Destroying the equipment here is not gonna get you out of here faster. In fact, they might sue you and then you’d have to fill out all sorts of forms so you would have to stay here even longer.” He smiled and hoped his weak attempt of a joke achieved to make Sherlock smile, too but Sherlock just stared at him, befuddled, distressed. His arms were ensnared in a mess of cables and electrodes and he hectically tried to free himself, only managing to entangle himself more but refusing to let John help him.  


The EEG made a whiny, annoying noise which made John’s ears ring and his own anxiety spiked up as he noticed the panicked look on Sherlock’s face. He had to do something. But before he could do anything, the door opened, and two nurses rushed in.  


“What’s going on here? Mr. Holmes why are you up?” one of them asked, confused. “Have you removed the electrodes to the EEG?”  


The other one hastened to find the off button of the EEG, and after a second, the thing stopped beeping loudly.  


The first nurse turned an annoyed look at Sherlock, resting her hands on her hips. “Why did you do that, Sir?”  


Sherlock lifted his entangled arms in helpless frustration. “It was only supposed to stay on for the night, wasn’t it? And its almost midday, why has nobody talked to us yet, where are these bloody doctors?”  


The nurse seemed not impressed by Sherlock’s outburst. She just met his gaze calmly and replied, “They will be here when it’s your turn, Mr. Holmes.” He tried to speak once more but she interjected at once. “They’re already at the end of the floor. If you could just be so patient to wait a little longer, and a doctor will be with you soon.”  


“But…”  


“No buts, Mr. Holmes,” she admonished, and she grabbed his arms firmly, ignoring his wince at her rough touch. It took her just a minute to disentangle his arms from the cables which she laid over the EEG machine. “Now be a good boy and get into bed again.” She pointed at the bed with a very strict expression on her face. He obeyed, albeit with a murderous facial expression, making no effort to hide his anger at being treated like a small child.  


After one more long look at both of them, the nurses disappeared again.  


Sherlock sat in his bed, no longer looking at the telly, fuming and staring into empty space. John knew it was probably wise not to say anything now. Sherlock needed to calm down and addressing him now would only rile him up further. John gritted his teeth at the troublesome sight of Sherlock sitting there like that, all tense shoulders and taut jawline and he would have liked to pull him into a soft embrace, to tell him that he would be home soon and it was gonna be okay. But he didn’t.  


After a while, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, and John was shocked to see naked despair in Sherlock’s eyes. It was only there for a second and then the eyes were flittering towards John in panic, afraid that he had seen this moment of weakness. John was unable to pretend he hadn’t seen it and Sherlock’s face hardened when he saw. He swallowed heavily and turned his gaze towards the telly again, pretending nothing had happened.  


John was swallowing, too. _I ought to say something, lighten the mood, make him feel less tense._ But he was at a loss for words and he was feeling slightly nauseous with helplessness.  


A soft knock at the door made both of them look up. It was Greg Lestrade who stood in the doorway, looking a little embarrassed.  


“Hello, guys. Am I interrupting anything?”  


A short, mirthless laugh escaped Sherlock’s mouth. “Not really. I wish you were.”  


Greg stepped into the room and stood by Sherlock’s bed, a little uncertain how to go on.  


“Sherlock, “he started slowly, trying to assess Sherlock’s state of mind, “I’m glad you seem to be alright. Are you alright? You seem good, considering the circumstances.”  


“Yes, I’m fine. It’s just a concussion, nothing to worry about.” Sherlock looked at John sideways. “Apparently, doctors like to keep patients under their care a little longer than necessary, probably out of some stupid power complex or something the like.” John just grinned at him.  


Greg grinned, too. “Sherlock. Just let the good doctors decide what’s best for you, alright? They only have your good health in mind. You should be thankful.”  


Sherlock snorted. “Yeah, right.”  


Greg’s smile disappeared. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You had us quite worried there yesterday, me and John.” A strange glimmer flashed in Sherlock’s eyes but disappeared immediately.  


“What happened? How did you manage to get yourself into that kind of situation again? I hate to ask, but I need your statement again, you know how it is.”  


Sherlock let out a long, anguished sigh and then recounted yesterday’s events in a bored, clipped voice. John leaned forward while he heard the story for the first time, too. Greg sat down in a chair and wrote everything down Sherlock said. When Sherlock reached the part where he was captured, he hesitated, and John perked up.  


“What happened, Sherlock? What did you say to her?” He was already suspicious, he knew his best friend, knew that he was unable to keep back the snark. When Sherlock didn’t say anything, his eyes dropping down, his suspicion was confirmed.  


“You provoked her, didn’t you?”  


“Well …. not really, “Sherlock protested, looking up but John was shaking his head in frustration.  


“It’s always the same with you! You just can’t resist it, can you? You always have to do that, keep poking at them, angering them, when you know it just makes them snap.”  


Sherlock was trying to say something, but John was in a fit now, rage boiling up inside him suddenly, inexplicably, making him jump off his bed and flail his arms around angrily.  


“No! Just keep quiet for once! I need to say this!” He paced the room impatiently, his throat felt tight all of a sudden. He stopped and took a couple of deep breaths, focussing his gaze on Sherlock again eventually.  


“You’re supposed to be a bloody genius but all I see is an idiot who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up!”  


Shocked at the words coming out of his mouth, John registered Sherlock looking at him open-mouthed, and wide-eyed and an inner voice told him to _stop, stop it now, you’re hurting him_ , but somehow his brain didn’t work properly, and he kept going.  


“You’re an idiot, and that’s why you’ve been hurt so much in the past and the reason you will keep getting hurt in the future. You just can’t keep yourself from being yourself and someday it will kill you, Sherlock! See where your bloody mouth gets you then!”  


He fell silent, breathless, his chest heaving with exertion and he sensed his rage cooling down again, leaving as quickly as it had come. He felt slightly light-headed as he told himself to calm down, to slow his breathing and that’s when he noticed Greg staring at him, appalled. Sherlock, in contrast, was looking at his hands in his lap, so he couldn’t see his eyes. What he could see though was the slight tremor in his shoulders.  


_Oh God. I’ve done it again. I’m yelling at him for being himself, for not changing, but I’m just the same, I keep yelling at him although he is in this state._  


Wide-eyed, he took a step towards his friend, desperate to see his face. “Sherlock, oh God, I’m sorry….”  


“No, John.” Sherlock looked up and there were angry tears in his eyes, refusing to spill out of his bright blue eyes. His lips were drawn into a thin line and he was pale as a ghost. “It’s good to know where you’re standing. Really.”  


An uncomfortable silence stretched between them until Greg awkwardly cleared his throat.  


“I’m sure John didn’t mean it like that, right?” He looked at John who mumbled something incoherent under his breath, blushing slightly, unable to cope with the situation.  


_Stupid. Stupid, blockheaded, reckless moron! I need to tell him I didn’t mean it like that, I need to tell him …_  


“John, I’m sorry, but I need your statement, too, “Greg continued, “and I need you to come to the station with me.”  


John perked up at that. “What. Why?”  


“You killed a woman. It’s not a small matter. I’m sorry but I have to insist that you come with me after this visit.”  


“But Sherlock could be released any minute, couldn’t we do it another time?”  


Greg looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, mate, but my superior insisted. We just had that incident with you three days ago and I should have arrested you then, you know that. Mycroft got you out of that but with a body in the morgue, I can’t just leave it like that. I need your statement and I need your fingerprints.”  


John noticed Sherlock smiling to himself as if he found that very funny, but he didn’t comment on that.  


“But what if he’s released in the meantime? He can’t just go home by himself!”  


“What nonsense are you talking, John?” Sherlock was out of his bed in a second and right in John’s face. “I’m not a small child, of course, I can go home by myself! I’ll take a cab and that’s that!”  


John stepped forward too so that their faces were merely inches away from each other. “Oh no, you’re not. I’ll not let you out of my sight like that again, who knows where you might end up this time!”  


Sherlock’s face turned red with anger. “I do what I want and I’m sick of you trying to keep me from doing it!”  


“I’m only doing it for you!”  


“Boys, boys!” Greg stepped in between them, raising his hands to their chests to shove them away from each other. “Be nice to each other, please! Sherlock, please, get back in bed, you’re shaking.”  


Sherlock’s head snapped towards him. “What, you want to tell me what to do, too?” Greg just raised his hands defensively and shook his head, appalled at the sudden rage directed at him.  


“Sherlock, calm down.” John was really sorry for his words and he wanted him to know that. When he reached out to him, Sherlock recoiled at once and John stopped his movement, wincing in regret. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Sherlock glared at him and John just wanted to reach out, stroke his cheek, and tell him everything was gonna be alright and that he was so sorry that he had hurt him, he just wanted him to take him in his arms and hold him tight so he wouldn’t have that hurt look in his face anymore.  


“I’m sorry, “he repeated, and Sherlock hesitated, apparently uncertain if he really meant it or was just trying to appease him when another knock at the door made them all look up again.  


“Am I interrupting something?” It was Mycroft, umbrella in his hand, looking impeccable as ever in a three-piece beige suit, eyebrows raised at the spectacle in front of him.  


“You’re making quite a lot of noise, everyone on this floor can hear you.” His tone was full of disapproval.  


They all stared at him, interrupted by his unexpected presence and there was a suppressed smile on Mycroft’s face, indicating he was enjoying the little entrance he was making. But then it disappeared and a cold, calculating look replaced it as he searched their faces one after another, resting on Sherlock’s at last.  


“Well brother mine. You look quite fit for someone who has been in intensive care for the past twelve hours. How are you?”  


Sherlock snorted and waved his hand. “I’m fine, it’s only a concussion and I can probably go home soon. What are you doing here, Mycroft? There was really no need for you to come. Or do you have something that’s so important for me to do for you that you had to come here to drag me away? Is someone in the royal family in dire need of my services again?”  


Mycroft scowled his typical scowl. “No, that’s not why I came here. I only wanted to make sure you’re alright, brother mine.”  


“Oh, please.” Sherlock looked at his older brother with raised eyebrows. “Since when are you interested in my health? There’s something you need from me, so spit it out.”  


“There’s nothing, I assure you.” There was something akin to hurt in Mycroft’s eyes.  


“Well, then you can leave now, I assure you, I am fine.”  


Sherlock clearly didn’t believe him, and he threw his arms up in the air and then threw himself back onto his bed to curl into himself and pout. He was clearly upset with everyone present and he was getting more and more frustrated.  


Mycroft threw a glance in John’s direction, silently asking him if he hadn’t warned Sherlock of his visit and John shrugged helplessly, indicating that there hadn’t been a chance to do so. Greg was watching them all in a daze of fascination as if he didn’t have a clue of what was going on.  


That’s when a young female doctor entered their room, Sherlock’s medical chart in her hands.  


“Oh, “was all she said when she saw how many people were in the room. Greg and Mycroft discreetly stepped into a corner to give her some room. She smiled at them thankfully and then addressed Sherlock, still looking at the chart.  


“Alright, Mr. Holmes, I’m Dr. Mackenna, how are you feeling today?”  


Sherlock quickly uncurled himself from his position on the bed and nearly jumped off the bed. “I’m fine, “he said eagerly, “I’d like to leave.”  


Dr. Mackenna looked up at him for the first time and she smiled in sympathy. “I understand. But before I can make that decision, let me take a look at your EEG results first.”  


She looked at her chart and murmured to herself for a little while. John saw Sherlock’s knuckles turn white as he waited for her answer.  


“Alright, Mr. Holmes, your EEG showed no irregular brain activities, it seems you were very lucky with that kind of hit you took. The nurses tell me your vitals were fine as well. So if you want, you can go home. I assume Dr. Watson here will look after you, yes?”  


“Yes, he will.” Sherlock was beaming again, seemingly unaware of the little dispute he and John had had beforehand.  


“Alright, I’ll release you then, “she said. “You’ll just have to sign some papers and then you are good to go. I’ll prescribe you some painkillers for your head and I strongly advise you to take it easy for a couple of weeks. You really need to rest. No strenuous physical activities, no sports, don’t drive vehicles of any kind or ride a bike, avoid any kind of alcohol. If you experience any dizziness, nausea, severe headache or any other drastic symptoms, please come back to check with us for more tests. It’s highly improbable that there will be swelling or bleeding in your brain after so many hours, but there is a small chance, so please let Dr. Watson monitor you closely and treat yourself to some rest, Mr. Holmes.” She fixated him with a musing, thoughtful stare. “Alright?”  


He returned her gaze calmly. “Yes, of course, I understand.”  


She turned to John then. “Doctor Watson, I’m still a little worried about Mr. Holmes’ shoulder. As of now, the infection seems very mild, but I’d like you to keep a close eye on it. After last night it could very well worsen.”  


He nodded grimly. “Yes, I know. I’ll watch the wound closely.”  


She nodded, reassured. “Alright then. The nurse will show you the papers you both have to sign. I wish you a good recovery.”  


Then she was gone, and Sherlock beamed at all three of them as if he had defeated them in battle.  


“You see? I’m fine and you’re all overexaggerating, you drama queens.”  


He hopped off the bed, grabbed his clothes and after another heated glare at all of them, he disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed. They all let out a collective sigh and looked at each other tentatively. Greg spoke first.  


“I’m sorry, John, but I still need you to come to the station with me.”  


John groaned. “Ah yes, I already forgot.” He dragged a hand over his face. “But I can’t, he’ll run out of here as soon as those papers are signed, and I fear he’ll run onto the street, right into a car, he’s so eager to get back home.”  


“I can take him home.”  


John stared at Mycroft in astonishment. “You? You mean in your car?”  


Mycroft smiled at him, a sarcastic, challenging smile. “Yes, why not, pray tell?”  


“Well … I don’t think he’d like that very much.” John said lamely.  


“I don’t suppose he has much of a choice, does he? The hospital won’t let him go if he’s not accompanied home by someone. Since you are occupied, I will be the one to do it even if he doesn’t like it. It’s either that or staying here.”  


John stared at him for a second then he shrugged. “I guess you’re right.” He started to pack his things together, making his bed without thinking, because he was so used to it. Then another thought entered his mind.  


“But you mustn’t upset him, Mycroft! Promise me. He needs rest now, he still has that concussion and he can’t get rest when he’s yelling at you or being nagged at by you.”  


Mycroft fixed him with a challenging smile. “Oh is that so? I’m sorry Dr. Watson, but I was under the impression that you were the one upsetting my little brother just a few minutes ago quite successfully.”  


The corners of John’s mouth fell, and he didn’t know what to say – a fact that apparently amused Mycroft a great deal.  


“Yes, well that was stupid of me and I will make sure it won’t happen again, “John replied through gritted teeth. Then, softer: “Please, Mycroft, I’m asking you nicely.”  


Mycroft smiled a tight-lipped smile. “I know Dr. Watson. Please rest assured, my brother is in good hands.”  


“Alright. Will you stay with him until I’m back?”  


“Of course.”  


“He won’t like it, he will complain a lot.”  


“I will live, I’m sure.”  


“What are you on about?”  


Sherlock was standing in the bathroom door, fully dressed, staring at them with careful suspicion.  


John got straight out with it. “Mycroft will take you home. I have to go to the station with Greg, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  


Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to protest. Then he stopped, shrugged, and started to pack his things. He was finished in less than two minutes.  


“Alright, “he said as he strode towards the door and looked back, at Mycroft “come on then.”  


“Of course. Goodbye gentlemen.” Mycroft threw one last glance at John and Greg and then followed his little brother who had already left the room.  


“I’ll see you later then, Sherlock!” John called after them but of course, he got no answer. He took a deep breath, trying not to keep calm. He had to talk to Sherlock later, for now, he would have to tend to his duties, he could reconcile with his friend afterwards. Hopefully.  


“Alright, “he said firmly, and looked at Greg, “let’s get going then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it glorious when the boys are fighting? I just love to make them fight, there's so much unresolved tension in the air :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, unfortunately I had very little time to write these past two weeks. But I should be able to resume my old pace now :)  
> As always, thanks for reading, let me know what you think :)

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s going to take?” John asked impatiently, glancing at Greg from the passenger’s seat from the police car they were in.  


Greg didn’t look at him as he concentrated on driving the short way to the police station through the stagnant midday traffic, instead he just frowned and shook his head. “I really can’t tell you, mate, sorry.”  


John sighed and ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. He stared out the window, subconsciously biting at the cuticles of his right thumb as he tried to quell the increasing turmoil in his belly. He really didn’t have the nerve to spend hours at the police station just to answer an endless stream of tedious questions.  


_Could Greg not have managed this without me? Sherlock’s not well, I have to look after him. I bet Mycroft will leave him as soon as he dropped him at Baker Street because he has things to do and who knows what nonsense Sherlock will get up to then? I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Why did I agree to this?_  


He bit so hard into his nail that he winced in pain and he stared at his finger as a tiny drop of blood appeared on its surface. Shaking his head in disgust and impatience at himself, he let his hand drop down and tried to repress the urge to move some part of his body in some way. He was feeling incredibly restless. Again. Although Sherlock theoretically was safe and sound this time. Well, as safe and sound as he could be with a nasty concussion, an infected bite wound, and the psychological trauma after two consecutive sexual assaults on his person. _Safe and sound indeed, right?_  


John cracked his knuckles in frustration, ignoring the wary look Greg was giving him from the side.  


_Calm down. Just answer their questions as quickly as possible, then you can go back home and take care of that stupid git. Mycroft wouldn’t be so stupid to leave him unsupervised again._  


That thought did calm him down a little. John knew he could trust Mycroft to take care of the situation, that controlling, fastidious man would never make the same mistake twice again, trusting personnel that couldn’t be trusted. Only his best men would be on the job now and probably Mycroft himself, additionally making sure that the men around him did the best job they could.  


They finally arrived after what seemed like an eternity but in reality, had only been ten minutes. John jumped out of the car the second it stopped, and Greg followed him with a concerned look on his face.  


“You okay there, John?”  


John was already at the door, holding it open, glancing backward for a second at Greg.  


“Yeah, yeah, sure. I just want to get this done as fast as possible.”  


Greg looked slightly alarmed but then his features changed into something more guarded, a fact that left John a little suspicious.  


But as he was quite impatient, he didn’t ask what that was about. He quickly entered the building, followed closely by his police friend.  


“Come with me, “Greg said, and he led them through a few corridors and into something that looked like an interrogation room. “Wait here, John, please, “Greg said, and he pointed to one of the chairs in front of a small table.  


John was a little nervous now. “What is this, Greg?” he asked, trying not to sound too upset. “Is this really necessary? I thought I was only supposed to answer a few questions.”  


Greg shrugged. “Yeah and that’s what’s going to happen now. They are going to ask you a few questions.”  


He didn’t really look at John though and that made John’s hackles rise immediately. “What do you mean ‘they’? he asked, his voice growing louder. “Won’t you stay here?”  


“No, “Greg answered apologetically, “I’m not allowed, mate. I was there with you when you shot that woman, I’ve already given them my statement. I’m a witness and it’s protocol that the interrogation is made by officers who weren’t at the scene. Sorry.”  


John sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll just answer the questions then.”  


Greg still looked as if something were on his mind, something he didn’t voice but before John could ask him what was wrong, Greg was already halfway out the door.  


“My colleague will be there in just a second, John, alright? I’ll see you afterwards.”  


John was alone then, and he let himself fall unto his designated chair heavily. However, after a few seconds of restless fidgeting on the chair, he jumped up again. He was feeling incredibly antsy. _What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I sit still for a minute? This is ridiculous. Simply ridiculous._  


He shook his head and ran a hand over his mouth when suddenly, the memory of him snapping at Sherlock a little while ago entered his mind.  


_“You’re supposed to be a bloody genius but all I see is an idiot who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up!”_  


_“You just can’t keep yourself from being yourself and someday it will kill you, Sherlock!”_  


A low groan escaped his mouth as Sherlock’s shocked face appeared in front of his inner eye, the hurt at John’s words open in those green-blue eyes brimming with tears. Just the simple memory of it caused a twisted ache in his chest that was almost unbearable.  


Sometimes he couldn’t believe his own temper. Sometimes he was simply unable to stop himself from letting utter nonsense spill out of his mouth and he hated himself for it. _Why can’t I just keep my stupid mouth shut for once? Why can’t I just let my best friend heal in peace instead of upsetting him with accusations he really doesn’t need to hear right now, especially not from his best friend?_  


John groaned in frustration, his hands clenching into helpless fists at his side.  


_I need to apologize again first thing when I’m back. When we’re alone and finally have some peace and quiet to talk a little. When he’s not at a hospital. I really should have known it wasn’t the ideal time to speak up, I am seriously messed up._  


But before he could continue hurling accusations at himself internally, the door opened, and a young police officer in civilian clothes entered. John realized at once he knew him.  


“Officer Dimmock?”  


Dimmock’s features moved into something that could be called a polite smile.  


“Yes, hello Doctor Watson, good to see you again. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”  


The officer motioned for John to sit down so he did, a nervous flutter spreading out in his stomach. The corner of his mouth twitched, his hands were clammy all of a sudden. Something felt off.  


Dimmock sat down in front of him and fixed him with a stern stare.  


“Alright. Doctor Watson. Tell me what happened two days ago. Start at the beginning, please.  


//////  


“You see?” he repeated for the umpteenth time, it seemed, “it was obvious she was going to kill Sherlock right then and there, so it was completely justified that I shot her.”  


“It just seems strange to me that you shot her in the throat. From the side.”  


“What’s strange about it? I was nervous, I was scared for my friend who was in danger.”  


“But you’re an ex-soldier. Trained in handling guns. I find it hard to believe you wouldn’t be able to shoot her straight in the head if you really wanted to eliminate the threat to your friend. Or maybe shoot her gun out of her hand. You would have been capable of it. So why didn’t you?”  


John didn’t say anything, just stared in front of him in increasing frustration and anger.  


Dimmock leaned forward, a hungry expression on his face. “Because you wanted to cause her pain. You wanted her to die in agony because she had threatened Sherlock. Isn’t that right?”  


John’s jaw tightened and he was staring daggers at the officer, but he remained silent. Dimmock only seemed to take that as in invitation to speculate further.  


“Oh, yes, I think that’s exactly what you wanted. Seems to me you couldn’t handle your precious friend in danger. When I met you two, I thought there was something strange about you. Both of you running around, solving crimes together, just like that. Who would do that? Well, as for Sherlock, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s a bloody psychopath that gets off on looking at corpses and doesn’t care who’s lying on the pavement in front of him at all!”  


“Now wait a minute! That’s not true!” John bellowed as he jumped out of his chair, his finger raised threateningly.  


But Dimmock just looked up at him, sneering at him in triumph. “Whatever your motive is more of a mystery. But not really though. He couldn’t just be your friend, that’s not reason enough to follow him around like a puppy, nodding your head at everything he says. No, it’s obvious, you’re completely besotted with him and that’s why you shot that lady in the throat because she dared to threaten your precious little lover boy!”  


John’s whole body tensed, a low growl escaping his throat as he stepped forward, ready to attack the officer at the next wrong word. Dimmock stood up and grinned at John lazily as if challenging him to attack. John was so incredibly angry, he nearly lost it right then.  


_How dare he insult Sherlock? How dare he insinuate…._  


“What’s going on here?”  


Greg was standing in the door, staring at the scene in front of him. Dimmock shrugged and sat back down in his chair.  


“Oh, nothing, everything’s fine here, Officer Lestrade.”  


“John?” Greg looked at him with raised eyebrows.  


John who was still staring at Dimmock as if he wanted to run him through with a sword, eventually dropped his gaze and sat back down, too.  


“I’d like to know what’s going on here, too, “he said, after a minute of silence, looking at Greg again. “I’ve answered all your questions, you have my statement. I’d like to leave now.”  


Greg and Dimmock looked at each other with strange looks on their faces and it made John’s stomach churn in anxiety.  


“What?”  


Greg turned an apologetic look at him. “I’m sorry, John. I can’t let you leave. In fact, I have to put you in detention, the Public Prosecutor’s Office is aiming to charge you with murder.”  


“What?!” John stared at him as if he had gone insane.  


“I’m sorry.”  


“You cannot be serious!”  


“I’m afraid I am.”  


“What did you think would happen?” Dimmock sneered at him from the side. “Do you think you can just wander around, shooting people, and then go back home as if nothing’s happened? A woman is dead because of you, Doctor Watson!”  


“She was about to kill Sherlock! Greg here can attest to that!” John was flailing his arms around helplessly, completely unable to comprehend what was happening.  


“And I did attest to that, “Greg said, his hands raised placatively, trying to calm John down. “But it’s not that simple. They’re charging you now and trying to get all the facts straight. Apparently, Mrs. Bendick was one important woman and her father-in-law is raising a ruckus about you. He probably pressured prosecution into charging you.”  


“But that’s ridiculous! I only saved Sherlock’s life! You know that, Greg!”  


“Yes, I know that! But they don’t so we’ll have to persuade them that’s how it was.”  


A sound of deep frustration and irritation escaped John’s throat, making both the other men look at him warily as if he were a caged bear trying to get out.  


Greg dared to take a step towards him.  


“Please, John, calm down! It won’t help you if you’re making a fuss now. Behave, stay calm, and explain everything to them how it was, and you’ll probably walk out of here in no time.”  


“Do you really believe that?” John was hesitant.  


Greg shrugged helplessly. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I have put many a man into the detention cell, only to release him 24 hours later. If you’re lucky that’s what’ll happen with you too.”  


“24 hours?” he repeated incredulously. “No, I cannot stay that long! I have to get back home, I need to take care of Sherlock!”  


“Ah, here we go again,” Dimmock chimed in, rolling his eyes dramatically, “You’re really infatuated with him, aren’t you? Strange, really, to fall in love with that annoying freak.”  


John would have jumped him if Greg had not restrained him at the last second.  


“Don’t you dare call him that! He’s not a freak, and he’s not a psychopath!” he yelled, triumphing inwardly when he saw a flicker of fear flash in Dimmock’s eyes as the man retreated from him, even though John was held back by Greg. “He’s a human being, like you and me, in fact, he’s even better than you could ever be, so just shut the fuck up!”  


He tried to lunge at Dimmock again and almost managed to twist out of Greg’s grip.  


“Get out, quick!” Greg shouted at his fellow officer with some difficulty and he jerked his head towards the door.  


Dimmock didn’t have any problem with complying. As soon as he was gone, John’s body went slack, and Greg released him.  


“You alright now?” he asked him with a taxing glance, and John nodded breathlessly as he tried to regain his composure.  


“Sorry, Greg. I just couldn’t …. What he said about Sherlock…” He waved his hand helplessly into the empty space.  


Greg’s eyes were sympathetic. “I understand, John. He’s an arse, he shouldn’t have said it, that wasn’t even remotely professional.”  


“He’s just one of many talking shit about him.” Frustration and bitterness seeped out of John’s voice and Greg looked at him with surprise.  


“You’re awfully protective of him, aren’t you?” he said quietly.  


John glanced at him for a second, then looked down at the floor, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I guess I am, “he answered eventually.  


A warm hand was placed on his shoulder. “He’s lucky to have you, John, “Greg said, squeezing lightly, you‘re a good friend.”  


_Yeah. A good friend. That’s what I am to him. Aren’t I?_  


He didn’t say anything, and Greg took his hand away again.  


“I’m sorry, John. I really am, but I have to lock you into the detention cell now.”  


John looked up, oddly calm for a change, although he couldn’t fathom why. He felt terribly tired all of a sudden. “It’s alright, Greg, “he said with a sad smile. “You’re only doing your job.”  


Greg nodded, obviously concerned at John’s sudden resignation. He motioned for John to step ahead of him and together they walked down the corridor, down another aisle to the detention cell, a sterile empty room containing only a bed, a sink and a toilet. Without a word between them, Greg unlocked the door, John stepped in and Greg locked it again.  


“I’ll be back soon, “he said. “I’ll have to take your fingerprints and if you want, you can make a phone call.”  


“Yes, I’d like that very much, “John answered quickly.  


Greg nodded with a short smile. “Alright. See you in a bit.”  


/////  


The ride home in Mycroft’s car was almost bearable, to Sherlock’s utmost surprise. He didn’t like being in such a confined space with his older brother, had always felt suffocated, as if he couldn’t breathe near that insufferable man he shared his blood with. He had often been forced to endure it though, as Mycroft had always had the tendency to hover near him, he always liked to know his little brother’s whereabouts and this led to him giving Sherlock a ride home more often than Sherlock liked to admit.  


On some occasions it had proved useful though, for instance when Sherlock found himself at the other end of town without so much as a penny to his name he could pay a cab with. Other times, circumstances were even direr when he managed to get himself injured while chasing after minor or less minor criminals. Although Mycroft always complained about the blood staining the expensive leather of his car seats, he almost never failed to secure him and deliver him back home – because in most cases, Sherlock refused to be taken to the hospital - safe and sound.  


At this very moment, the brothers were sitting opposite each other – Mycroft’s luxurious cars naturally had that much space – glancing out of different windows respectively, silence stretched out between them, to no one’s surprise. Sherlock was well aware of the occasional scrutinizing look in his direction, but he did his best to ignore it. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, not with Mycroft, not with anyone else. He was desperately in need of some solitariness, he felt he hadn’t been on his own in ages.  


In general, he was a person that needed a lot of space as well as time for himself. This was due to the fact he could think best when he was alone and no other person’s insufferable babbling intruded on his brain’s ability to analyse and deduce the situation or problem laid out to him. Or when he simply needed to dive into his mind palace where he could spend hours and hours filing away information or gathering it back up.  


But apart from that, he was a very private person. He liked to be alone. He liked the peace and quiet. Sometimes he would just play the violin for hours and lose himself in the sound of his own music. Other times, he would just keep himself busy with cold cases from Lestrade or write for his blog. It was nice, doing simple stuff like that in contrast to the adrenalizing detective work he did which included chasing after criminals, analysing crime scenes. His transport needed the rest from time to time, even if he was loath to admit it. But he could only enjoy it up to a certain point, if he didn’t get a fresh interesting case in time, he would get bored being stuck in his apartment all the time, his head would almost burst because the voices inside were getting to loud, so much that he couldn’t endure it anymore. Mrs. Hudson, as well as John, could attest to how much that affected him.  


_John._  


His jaw clenched as he remembered their last conversation. Or rather, their dispute. It seemed to him, they were always fighting now, and he deeply regretted that. He liked John very much, he was his best friend, no one understood him better than him.  


That is, until now. Momentarily, it seemed that John was unable to give Sherlock the space he needed. Usually, he understood that Sherlock was unwilling to talk about every single thing that occupied his mind and he respected his boundaries. But after that unfortunate incident in the park, John seemed restless, almost anxious and he drove Sherlock crazy with all his mother-henning.  


_Why can’t he see that I need my space?_  


_I’m fine, it’s not necessary._  


His eyes closed as something akin to hurt curled up in the pit of his stomach when he remembered the words his best friend had hurled at him at the hospital. The way his face had twisted with anger and frustration. At him, Sherlock, because he was the way he was.  


It was hard to admit to himself, but that had really stung. He hadn’t been able to hide the angry tears welling up in his eyes and that had made it even worse. How dare John attack him like that? How dare he insinuate that Sherlock was at fault for ending up in danger every so often? He crossed his arms in front of his chest, feeling indignation and defiance build up a wall inside him.  


_But what if he’s right?_  


_I do tend to get bored. I do tend to throw myself into dangerous situations, just because I love the thrill of it. How many times have I been injured because I didn’t think, because I couldn’t wait for back-up, because I was reckless?_  


_Countless times…_  


Something inside him loosened and his face fell as he realized the truth behind John’s words. He tried to tell himself that he was being sentimental, that he mustn’t allow the words to get to him, but he already knew that it was useless now.  


It was true. He knew that John was right. Of course, John was always right. Well, most of the time, at least.  


_But that means it’s my own fault that I was assaulted by that stranger. I insulted him and then I was too stupid to realize he was still a threat. It’s my own stupid, stupid fault that I was drugged and assaulted and almost raped…_  


Terror washed over him then like a tidal wave and he almost let out a sob. Suddenly aware of where he was, he caught himself at the last second and managed to stop the sound from escaping his throat, his hand flying to his mouth instinctively.  


Mycroft looked at him sharply.  


“Sherlock, is everything alright?” he asked in his usual acerbic tone, although there was a hint of concern underneath it.  


Quickly, Sherlock responded like he usually did with Mycroft: he rolled his eyes dramatically and scoffed. “Yes, of course, everything’s alright, Mycroft, why wouldn’t it be?”  


“Because I know you and you’re not well.”  


“I assure you, I am, “Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “Why can’t everybody get off my back already? God, what is it with you all today? You’re driving me crazy with all your fussing around. I repeat myself, I am not a child!”  


Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Then stop acting like one.”  


That was met with a deep scowl and Sherlock refused to answer that. He turned his body towards the window, away from Mycroft, to indicate that their discussion was over, but Mycroft wouldn’t just be dismissed like that.  


“Sherlock, “he said with a heavy sigh, “everyone is only trying to help you, don’t you realize that?”  


“I don’t need everyone’s help or anyone else’s, for that matter!” Sherlock bristled.  


“Really? So you would have been fine on your own when you were drugged and almost raped by that stranger in the park three days ago? Or killed by that woman in the basement yesterday? Hm?” Mycroft’s stare was intense, and Sherlock forced himself not to look away, although he truly was at a loss for what to say.  


“I….that… “he practically stammered, and he hated how frail his voice sounded, hated his own weakness.  


But instead of mocking him for it, as Sherlock would have expected him to, Mycroft’s features softened. “John saved you both times, Sherlock. You needed him, badly. If he hadn’t been there, you would be dead or at least hurt even worse than now.”  


“I’m fine!” Sherlock said stubbornly.  


Mycroft looked at him with something akin to sadness and it completely rattled Sherlock. He wasn’t used to that look from his older brother, at all. Contempt, ridicule, irritation – those were the things he expected from Mycroft, those were the things he was comfortable with because he knew how to deal with them. Not this. Not this – compassion, or whatever it was.  


He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it.  


“Stop that sentimental bullshit, Mycroft, “he snapped, out of habit, “it doesn’t suit you.”  


“No, dear brother mine, “Mycroft replied softly. “You stop being such an insufferable fool and start listening for a change. You have been assaulted twice in a matter of days. You need to heal. You need to let people take care of you.”  


“No, “Sherlock spat out angrily. “I told you, I don’t need anyone.”  


“What about John? He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”  


Sherlock looked out of the window again, willing himself to calm down. “Yes.”  


“Then why not let him take care of you for a little while? He’s a doctor and he cares for you, deeply. You even live with him, it wouldn’t be so hard to let him fuss over you for a couple of weeks, take your temperature, change your bandages, would it?”  


Sherlock preferred to stay quiet, but his indignant huff was answer enough.  


Mycroft sighed again and shook his head. “Oh, Sherlock. You’ve always been such a headstrong person. Even as a child, you managed to exasperate everyone around you, starting with Mummy, ending with every single maid or other servant hired to work for us.”  


“Yes, I know, “Sherlock sneered at him, viciously, “I’ve always been nothing more than a nuisance, haven’t I? So bothersome, so why dear brother, why do you trouble yourself with watching over me, spying on me? It must be so tedious, having to clean up after me, apologizing to everyone I have insulted.”  


“It is, “Mycroft said calmly, “but I’ve learned to live with it. And you are family, after all.”  


“Oh, stop that nonsense, Mycroft! You’re only interested in me because of the work I do for you and the stupid British government! That’s all, so stop that pseudo-sentimental crap!”  


Something flashed in his brother’s eyes, something that could be mistaken for hurt. But Sherlock knew he was wrong, Mycroft would never be hurt by something Sherlock said, he seemed incapable of sentiment at all. Which was fine by the way. Healthier.  


“I see, “Mycroft said after a while. “I’m sorry you think about me that way. You are wrong, by the way, but I’m sure you won’t believe me when I tell you that you do matter to me, little brother. A lot. So I won’t waste our time saying it out loud.”  


“Good.” Silence stretched out again. On the one hand, Sherlock was triumphant that he seemed to have won that battle, as well as he did have the last word but at the same time, he felt sad and he was terribly annoyed at himself for it.  


_How useless the human heart is. How vulnerable and impressionable._  


The car stopped. Sherlock only then realized they had already reached Baker Street, something that slightly upset him because he usually was very aware of where he was, even when in a car. He really was slipping nowadays.  


He reached for the door, aiming to get out as quickly as possible, when suddenly there was a hand on his knee, stopping his movement. He looked up in surprise and his eyes widened when he saw his brother’s cool blue eyes boring into him, imploring him to listen.  


“Let him take care of you, little brother. He only wants the best for you.”  


Sherlock was speechless for a moment, even unable to slap away the hand on his knee which was what he should be doing.  


Before he could regain his countenance, however, the hand was gone, and Mycroft had stepped out of the car.  


Puzzled, Sherlock followed him. Outside, Mycroft waited patiently for his brother to unlock the door to 221B, his face back to its stoic frown. As soon as they had stepped into the hallway, Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her apartment.  


“Oh, Sherlock, there you are! I’ve been worried sick about you! Back home already?” She advanced quickly as a bird and suddenly grabbed his collar, tugging him down so that she could inspect his face. Startled, he let her.  


“Oh, you poor thing, “she cried out, as her eyes flew over his split lip, his pale skin, his bandaged head. “What have they done to you? Are you sure it’s a good idea to go home already?”  


The last sentence was addressed at Mycroft, with an accusing tone and a stern face.  


Mycroft, as ever slightly losing his poise when confronted with Sherlock’s fierce landlady, did his best to scowl at her. “The doctors released him, Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure they wouldn’t have done that had it not been alright.”  


“Don’t you speak to me in that tone, Mister, “she warned him with a raised finger, and he rolled his eyes at her but ceased when he noticed Sherlock’s disapproving look.  


“Alright, “he said with another heavy sigh, “would you mind making us some tea, Mrs. Hudson? I’m sure a hot beverage would do Sherlock some good.”  


“That’s absolutely unnecessary, “Sherlock protested, but Mrs. Hudson was already climbing up the stairs, nodding to herself.  


“Nonsense, Sherlock, “she muttered, then she looked back, “are you coming? But only this once, as you know I’m not your housekeeper, dear.”  


Sherlock looked at Mycroft and was astonished to see a big grin on his brother’s face.  


“Come now, brother mine, “he said as he pointed towards the stairs, “better not to make her wait, then.”  


Sherlock scoffed before he indeed followed Mrs. Hudson upstairs.  


_Never thought I’d see the day where those two would share the same opinion._  


His lips curled into a small smile.  


It disappeared quickly as soon as he stepped into his flat when he was manhandled out of his coat and pushed onto the sofa by tiny Mrs. Hudson.  


“Mrs. Hudson, would you please stop doing that?” he said, highly irritated.  


She completely ignored him and began bustling about in the flat, cleaning things up, starting to make the tea. Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to his fate. She would have to leave sooner or later when there was nothing to do. Mycroft, too. And then he could finally have some peace.  


“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he eventually asked Mycroft who stood in the middle of the living room, glancing out the window with his umbrella swirling in his right hand.  


“Not right now, “Mycroft answered coolly, not bothering to look at him.  


“Really? No super important government business going on, no secret meetings to organize, wars to prevent?” Sherlock tried not to sound too hopeful.  


Mycroft turned and smiled his typical I-know-everything-better-than-you-smile. “I’m afraid, little brother, you’ll have to endure my presence here for a little while longer. Don’t think for a second you’ll be left alone here.”  


“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock snapped. “This is my home, I can throw you out of here anytime I want to!”  


“No, “Mycroft said simply, “you can’t.”  


Sherlock was up on his feet and in his brother’s face before he even realized he had moved. “Oh, the arrogance of you, imposing upon me, ordering me around as if I was your property, thinking you can decide everything over my head!”  


He threw his hands in the air to make a point.  


“You insufferable control freak, I’ve never asked you to do this! Just leave me alone, will you? I just want some peace and quiet, dammit!”  


Red-hot fury threatened to consume him and he wanted to scream at Mycroft, insult him so much that he would get angry and leave him alone but as he opened his mouth once more to hurl out more insults, a sharp pain flared up in his skull and he staggered, reaching out to his forehead involuntarily.  


“Ah!”  


“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s arms shot forward around his waist to support him and for a few seconds, Sherlock leaned into him, letting him support his weight, because he was feeling light-headed and the room was spinning a little and _what did I want to say again?_  


“Sit down, Sherlock, come on.” Mycroft’s voice sounded nervous and concerned.  


He shook his head and shoved his brother’s hands away. “No, it’s alright, I’m fine.”  


“Sit down, Sherlock!”  


It was an order, not a request and Sherlock instinctively obeyed the familiar commanding voice. He sat on the chair right next to him, although he managed to throw one more evil look in his brother’s direction.  


Mycroft rolled his eyes again. “My God, Sherlock, you really are a child. You have a concussion and if I recall correctly, the doctor said to take it easy for a while. So would you just stop behaving like an imbecile and do what is asked of you? For once?”  


Sherlock didn’t answer, instead, he drew his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arm around them. It was one of his ‘pouting’ positions, although he didn’t even realize it.  


“Come on boys, “Mrs. Hudson shouted from the kitchen, “tea’s ready.”  


Mycroft looked at Sherlock who refused to meet his gaze. Mycroft shrugged and went to fetch himself a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson soon brought Sherlock his with a slightly scolding look on her face, but she didn’t say anything. She knew his moods and she knew better than to provoke him now.  


“Alright, boys, I’ll leave you to it then,” she said. “I’ better go and cook up some dinner for you, Sherlock, yes? So you get better soon. So you can go running around London again fast. With John. Where is he by the way?”  


She looked at him expectantly, but Sherlock was really not in the mood to talk.  


“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, dinner would be wonderful, thank you, “Mycroft answered instead, gracing her with something akin to a thankful, honest smile, “Doctor Watson is at the police station, giving his statement. He should be back soon.” She looked at him doubtfully. “Oh dear, “was all she said and after another hesitant look at Sherlock, she scurried off.  


Mycroft cleared his throat, sat down in John’s chair, and pulled out his phone, glancing at it while sipping his tea contentedly. Sherlock decided he was in the mood for tea and drank his, too.  


After they had sat in silence for a while, Sherlock cleared his throat.  


“Yes, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked without looking up from his phone.  


“So how long do you intend to stay here?” Sherlock asked, trying for once not to sound annoyed. “You’ll leave as soon as John’s back, right?”  


“That is right.”  


“Good.” Sherlock was relieved. Even though he was annoyed with John for fussing over him - suffocating him - he preferred him over anyone else as his caretaker and most of all Mycroft. He could almost imagine his big brother forcing himself to watch over his little brother personally because he was such a control freak, not trusting anyone else to do the job after that last failure. Sherlock would not have been able to endure that, he would have tried to escape again, he knew.  


John would be back here soon, and they could carry on as before. Maybe he would humour his friend and behave for a little while, take it easy, only look at cases from home. That would appease his stubborn army doctor and then everything could go back to normal again. Mycroft could go back to ordering the world around and leave him alone, let him live his own life in peace. As it should be.  


Suddenly, his phone rang completely tearing him out of his thoughts. He startled and the tea nearly spilled out of the cup had it not been half-drained already. Quickly, he put the cup down and jumped out of the chair to fumble for his phone in the pockets of his Belstaff coat. Finally, he found it.  


“Yes?” he answered, slightly out of breath.  


“Sherlock, it’s me.”  


“John.” A smile spread over Sherlock’s face, it was good to hear his friend’s voice, it immediately calmed him down.  


But then he frowned as he realized something.  


“John, why are you calling?” He wouldn’t be calling if he were on his way back home, there wouldn’t be a need for it.  


“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I can’t come home right now.” John sounded truly dreadful.  


“What? Why not?” Something cold spread out in Sherlock’s chest and he shivered involuntarily.  


“I’m in detention. They …. They want to charge me with murder.”  


“What?” Sherlock almost let the phone fall out of his hand, he was so shocked.  


“What do you mean, they want to charge you with murder?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s head snap up, but he was too distraught to think about him now.  


“Apparently, the woman I killed was someone important and her family pressured the prosecutor’s office to go after me.” John sounded tired and maybe even scared and Sherlock’s heart clenched as he pictured John at the police station, alone and in distress and no, he mustn’t think about that.  


_They cannot do that! He killed her to save my life! He saved me! It’s not fair, they can’t do that, they …._  


He wanted to scream, he wanted to throw his phone out the window, he wanted to howl at the injustice of it all…  


But then he caught sight of Mycroft staring at him anxiously. He pictured John with the same expression on his face, clutching the phone’s earpiece hardly as he waited for Sherlock to explode.  


_No. Fuck them._  


He swallowed down the rage, the despair, the frustration and went completely still.  


“Alright, “he said calmly.  


“Alright?!” John sounded close to hysterical.  


“Yes. Alright, “Sherlock repeated in the same tone, almost monotonous. “I do hope everything gets cleared up for you, John. Going through a whole trial would be really tedious, I guess. Alright, see you tomorrow, hopefully. Good luck.”  


“What?! Sherlock! I….”  


But Sherlock had hung up by then.  


He turned to Mycroft who meanwhile had stood up and approached him with a curious expression on his face.  


“I guess Doctor Watson is having trouble at the police station?”  


“It seems so.” Sherlock shrugged and averted his gaze when Mycroft’s stare pierced into him.  


“Quite boring business, all that, “he said with a vague wave into the air. He snatched his laptop from the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with it on his knees.  


“I see.” Mycroft had a knowing look on his face, one that made a fresh burst of anger twist in his stomach, but he ignored it and concentrated on the screen in front of him without so much as a twitch in his face.  


Mycroft spoke up again. “I’ll see what I can do about Doctor Watson’s situation.”  


Pause. Sherlock started to type something into his keyboard. After a few moments, he realized Mycroft was still staring at him, apparently waiting for a reaction.  


He made another waving motion with his hand. “Yes, yes do that.”  


“You do realize he killed that woman to save your life?” Mycroft asked sharply. “He did it for you, Sherlock.”  


“I know that, “Sherlock said, still mashing at his keyboard, a little aggressively maybe.  


He felt his face growing hot and he seriously hoped it did not show on the outside. His heart was pounding in his chest and his throat felt blocked up, it was getting hard to breathe and there were tears starting to form behind his eyes. But with sheer willpower he forced them back, all he did was swallow, but his face remained as impassive as ever.  


_I know, dammit! John saved me, once again and now he’s going to get punished for it! And I can’t do anything about it because I’m useless and it’s my fault he’s in that situation. I hate myself, I hate myself, John is in prison because of me, I am such a stupid, stupid idiot, it’s only fair that I get injured so much because I’m such an imbecilic git. John … John, I’m so sorry._  


He looked up again and met Mycroft’s incredulous glare calmly.  


“Yes, I know, “he repeated, irritated. “Go on, do something about it, will you?”  


_Do something for him because I can’t do it._  


Mycroft nodded slowly, as if he had realized something, then he turned away, pulled out his phone again, and quickly dialled a number.  


“Yes, it’s me, “he said, changing into the efficient, no-nonsense persona he always used for important business. “I need a favour.”  


Behind his laptop, Sherlock’s fingers stilled. They were trembling hard and he took one hand into the other to stop the shaking, throwing a wary look into his brother’s direction to check if he had seen it. But Mycroft was busy, standing in the corner, speaking into his phone.  


_Good._  


He tried to concentrate on his blog again. Writing that article about the coagulation of human saliva after death had never seemed as unappealing as it did now. He tried to form a sentence but came up with nothing.  


Suddenly, a wave of despair washed over him and threatened to take him down. He felt himself choking and he tried not to panic. To stop himself from doing that, he jumped off the couch and hurried off into the bathroom. Bending over the sink, he splashed cold water into his face and that seemed to help a little. He stood there with his face resting on his arm splayed over the sink, trying to breathe steadily.  


That’s when he was hit with sudden nausea. Reacting quickly, he turned, dropped to his knees, and vomited into the toilet. Like last time, there wasn’t much in his belly and soon he was only coughing up bile. He leaned his face against the cold toilet seat, exhausted, wishing he could just fall asleep. Make everything go away, he didn’t want to deal with it anymore.  


_Sleep._  


_Rest._  


_Forget._  


His head snapped up so hard it almost gave him whiplash. _Mycroft. Has he heard?_  


He stood up, made his way to the door on wobbly knees, and opened it quietly, peering around the corner. He exhaled in relief when he saw Mycroft still standing at the window, speaking into his phone. He really didn’t need his nagging older brother to give him his ‘I told you so’ face.  


He quickly washed his face again and brushed his teeth. Then he took a quick shower, thankful to wash off the sterile hospital smell he hated so much, but it wasn’t easy. His skull pounded like hell, the bite mark on his shoulder felt sore and he still felt shaky after throwing up. His whole body was yearning for rest.  


So he decided to give it some rest. He sat on the sofa – noticing a still busy Mycroft noticing him re-enter the living room in fresh clothes and wet curls – cross-legged and closed his eyes. After a few minutes of calm breathing – not even Mycroft’s low talking from the corner did disturb him now – he had already disappeared into the depths of his mind palace.  


It was safe there. Calm and quiet.  


_Safe._  


////  


Fifteen minutes earlier, at the police station, John was staring at the phone speechlessly. He looked at Greg, who was standing next to him, looking at him in confusion, then he looked back at the earpiece as if hoping Sherlock’s voice would miraculously pipe up again.  


But nothing came. Sherlock had hung up on him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock started at the huge brightly lit foyer he always started when he had no specific destination to go to. Sometimes, when he needed to distract himself or simply needed to pass the time, he would choose one path randomly and see where it would take him. He had discovered many hidden memories that way, information that his brain had deemed worthy enough to save but most of those files had been stored away so long ago that he liked to look at them from time to time. It was a good method to give his brain the opportunity to remember things more quickly, which could prove very effective when he needed specific memories to make progress in a case.  


Other times, he would sort through his memories to delete ones that weren’t important anymore. Many things that he had saved years and years ago would not be relevant to his more mature self now and it was satisfying deleting a few things that wouldn’t take up so much space in his mind palace anymore. And he needed a lot of space. His brain was like a sponge, it constantly soaked up information – always, everywhere - and although his mind palace was gigantic, consisting of hundreds of floors, every single one split up into several corridors with several adjoining rooms filled with countless files and memories, even to his genius there were limits, which made it necessary to take stock from time to time and delete unnecessary stuff.  


Maybe he would do that now. Going through memories, deleting stuff – that calmed him down and God knew he could need that right now. He also briefly considered trying to find a way to help get John out of prison, but he quickly thought better of it. He was too upset to think about that right now. Just thinking about his best friend alone and desperate in a depressing prison cell made his heart race in anxiety, he could feel it faintly as his mind briefly connected with its transport.  


_Stop it. Don’t think of that stuff now. It’s only upsetting you more. You’re here now. You’re safe. It‘s alright. Concentrate._  


He nodded to himself and took the first flight of stairs with determination, choosing the middle path of the three presented to him. He knew that path. It was the one where the most recent information he had gathered was stored, this was the path he would choose when he was on a case. He would enter every room available and take a look at the information gathered there, the things that would help him solve the case in the end.  


He didn’t need this corridor right now, so he just walked on to the next corridor. There were a few following after, those were the ones filled with rooms with information from the cases from before. He would need to see through those and see what should be kept and what deleted. Most of the information could be deleted because he didn’t need the names and addresses of former victims or witnesses, for instance. Sometimes, he would keep useful stuff, like the way a murder had taken place, the way a poison showed its marks on a victim’s face, or the effect a certain kind of bullet would have on a marble floor. He could use this information for the following cases, so he kept that and deleted the rest, thus erasing entire rooms, rendering the corridors smaller. His palace would adjust itself every time he entered and deleted something. The corridors would get smaller, rooms would disappear, which would make it easier to sort through new memories the next time he would come here.  


He spent some time going through his last three or four cases. He deleted quite a lot and that was very satisfactory. But after a while, he was finished, and he was still reluctant to leave. He didn’t want to go back, there was nothing of interest there for him at the moment. Let Mycroft sort things out for himself, he would stay a little while longer. He still wasn’t as calm as he should be.  


Feeling utterly restless and somehow not as in tune with himself as he was prone to when he went here, he surged forward, leaving behind a seemingly endless flight of stairs and corridors until he had reached the lowest levels of his palace.  


He seldom went here. There was hardly a need to come. Sentimentality, in general, was not one of his traits and he often mocked people for indulging in it. Still, he had not deleted this part of his memories and he knew his own weakness was to blame.  


His whole childhood was here. From the very first memories of his four-year-old self cradling a stuffed old teddy bear to his small thin body to the more recent recollections of a teenage Sherlock who was yelling at his parents and Mycroft most of the times.  


Turning around himself, staring at the closed doors, his mind slowly filled with dread.  


_Why have I come here? I wanted to calm myself, not look at stupid old memories from my childhood which should have been deleted ages ago. What am I doing here?_  


He wanted to leave because he had nothing to do here. But something told him to stay and he couldn’t leave, however much he wanted to. Somehow, he deduced, his mind provided him with an opportunity he needed to take. He didn’t know the reason for it but maybe this was important to change whatever was happening in the here and now for the better. Maybe he needed to see some information to know how to help with John’s situation? _Even if I originally didn’t want to think about that…_  


His whole being was flooded with the thought of his best friend and he felt himself freeze externally. Normally, when he was inside his mind palace, he wasn’t very aware of what was happening to his transport. This could be a little risky because he provided potential enemies with a target, a vulnerable one. It was no problem when he was in a safe environment, say their apartment or Scotland Yard, but sometimes he would have to enter the mind palace quickly when he was chasing after a criminal or saving a potential victim from certain death – he would leave his transport behind to quickly gather the information he needed and usually everything would be fine, because he had John with him, to see to the safety of his body. Very seldomly did that method fail.  


He was safe now, too, safe on his couch with his annoying older brother around him, so theoretically, he could stay for hours if he wanted to. Still, he needed to find out why his instinct had led him here.  


Choosing randomly, he opened a door.  


_Ah. This._  


With disgust, he looked at the scene playing out in front of him as if it were happening right at this moment. There he was, five years old, at Christmas Dinner with his family, grandparents, uncles, and aunts included. He had always hated it, when the whole family got together, luckily that hadn’t happened often, only about twice a year, for Christmas and Easter celebrations. He was forced to wear a suit and tie every time ever since he could remember those dreadful dinners. His aunt Nelly would pinch his cheek and tell him that he was too thin. His grandfather Jonathan would force him to sit on his knee and listen to one of his war stories, the same one every time.  


There would be tons of food, crowded rooms and loud people and of course, the presents. Sherlock had always been unable to hide when he didn’t like a present and as always, he was given stuff he didn’t like. Why was it so hard for his parents or anyone else in his family to understand that he didn’t need any toy cars, wooden or remote control, or in whichever form? He also wasn’t interested in toy soldiers, balls, or any kind of vehicle other boys his age loved to take for rides down their streets. Every Christmas mummy told him to behave like a good little boy and say thank you for every present he got. Every time it ended with him being scolded and sent to his room because he had scowled at whatever was given to him or even said out loud that he didn’t like it. He had explained to his parents countless times what he would love to get. He wanted a dog. It was as simple as that.  


“No, Sherlock, absolutely not. I won’t have a dog in the house. It’s filthy and will only need to be taken to the veterinarian countless times. You aren’t even old enough to assume such a responsibility. Absolutely not.”  


Mummy had been adamant, and he had hated her for it.  


But then he had turned seven and something of a miracle had happened: he got a dog for his birthday, an Irish setter he jubilantly had named Redbeard. He didn’t know exactly what had changed his mother’s mind, had never thought it possible and he expected the involvement of Mycroft or his father, but he didn’t question it for once. He had gotten what he had wished for and it was phenomenal. Redbeard made him incredibly happy, they were inseparable from the start, best friends forever. Redbeard had slept in his bed, although his mother had forbidden him that, and they spent their whole days together, playing out in the woods or pretending to be pirates at the lake, chaperoned by one of the incompetent nannies mummy always hired until they threw in the towel because Sherlock had said something more or less hurtful about them.  


It didn’t even matter that he didn’t have any friends at school, that they thought he was weird and too different to be one of them. He had Redbeard and he didn’t need anyone else.  


Until that day early November when he was ten and he had gotten back from school, eager to run into the woods with Redbeard. Mycroft had waited for him at the door and told him to sit down right at the doorstep. Then he had calmly told him that Redbeard had been run over by a car a couple of hours ago, he had died a little while later. Sherlock had been completely devastated, he had screamed at his brother, had attacked him with his small fists, and Mycroft had simply let it happen and pressed him against his chest, stroking his unruly curls and his shaking back when Sherlock had broken down crying.  


It had been one of the very rare times Mycroft had shown him open affection, something which nowadays would be out of the question, naturally. It did make sense. Mycroft had been the one who had taught him that caring was dangerous and would only bring you pain.  


His mind flashed and another scene appeared before his eyes: him returning home from school at eleven, with a bloodied nose and red eyes from crying because he had been betrayed by the only person, he had ever considered a friend, Victor Trevor. They had been friends for about half a year since Victor had shown up one day in class, having just moved here with his family from across the country. They had been assigned lab partners and because Victor had been very interested in science, Sherlock had offered to explain some of the experiments to him, eager to speak to someone who could potentially become his friend, but also cautious because of his experience with other boys. Victor had been enthusiastic and from that day on they had been very good friends. Such good friends that Sherlock even forgot about Redbeard for a while. Until Victor betrayed him and attacked him out of the blue after school with a bunch of other boys, mocking him for being a posh idiot, kicking him until they left him alone on the ground, bruised and bloodied.  


“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, “Mycroft had told him as he had applied some antiseptic cream to a cut on his cheek and offered him a glass of water along with some paracetamol. Sherlock had believed him then, had hardened himself and decided not to ever let that happen again. Be used like that. Lose control over his emotions and thus make himself a target.  


Another flash and there he is, telling Irene Adler the very same thing. Sentiment had been her ultimate weakness and it had cost her everything in the end. It had been incredibly satisfying, defeating her and rubbing her face in it like that but at the same time, he had felt….hollow somehow. Triumph would have been okay, of course, no danger in that, elation, pride, anything in that direction, fine. But … feeling hollow? That was a sentiment which he certainly did not want to feel so he had shoved it down, because what good was it to tell others the disadvantage of feelings when he himself was falling victim to them?  


Another flash. He and Mycroft are standing at the window in the morgue of St. Barts, smoking a rare cigarette together. He had just discovered that Irene Adler was dead, well he had thought so then at least, and he had felt strangely dissatisfied by that. She had challenged him to a cat-and-mouse game that provided him with the thrill he needed to keep going. She had been fun and interesting, and he had felt a little sad at her death. But only that. A little sad. That was okay, but he had asked himself then if he and Mycroft had been wrong all along. He had watched those people sobbing over a lost relative or friend and he knew that most people – normal people – reacted like that when a loved one died. He and Mycroft didn’t.  


“All hearts are broken. All lives end. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”  


Mycroft had been right of course. That he had been sure of when he had defeated Irene by exposing her feelings for him. Checkmate. Game over.  


All his life people had disappointed him. Never had he felt understood by anyone, except for Redbeard and then Victor which of course had been a mistake. His parents loved him well enough, but they didn’t get him. They didn’t understand how his mind functioned and, in the end, he was just an enigma to them, so they left him with the nannies to tend to him. Mycroft of course had probably understood him to some extent because their minds were alike, but apart from those very rare occasions, he had left him alone and they had never bonded over their similar personalities. He was seven years older, maybe that was the reason why they never had. It didn’t matter anyhow. Mycroft’s words on the day Redbeard had died had given him comfort and he had adjusted his way of thinking from that day on. He was thankful for Mycroft’s lesson although he would never tell him that, obviously.  


And it had gotten him through life just fine. He enjoyed his life like it was, loved being a consulting detective, and was very content with his existence at 221B Baker Street. Until John had stepped into it.  


Somehow, the ‘sentiment is a chemical defect’ – thing had never really applied when it came to John.  


Sherlock had realized that from the very start things were different with his new flatmate and at first, that hadn’t been a problem at all. John had been, on the surface just an ordinary guy in his late thirties, an ex-soldier and army doctor with PTSD, easy to read. But the more he got to know him, the more layers of John’s personality made themselves known and he grew more and more fascinated with him.  


John was different. John was brilliant somehow.  


And John cared. He had cared for him from the very start. That’s why he had followed him and that crazy cab driver to the abandoned college and shot him, saving him from making a very unwise decision which could possibly have resulted in his death. 

They had been best friends from the very first day.  


“I don’t have friends. I only have one.”  


He had realized earlier than that of course. He had realized it on the day John had shot the cabbie and he had somehow been okay with that. Sentiment was a disadvantage but with John, it had always been okay. A tiny voice inside his head had always warned him to watch out, to not let things between him and John grow too strong, it would only make him weak. John would become a liability sooner or later.  


But all the same, he had ignored that voice. How could he not when John had shot a man for him, put himself in harm’s way in front of Moriarty? Maybe it was okay to just have one weakness.  


He loved having a best friend. It gave him something he had never experienced before: a sense of comfort and security just by having this very person by his side every day. He loved having John and he could never imagine life without him anymore.  


But what was John’s take on all of this?  


After the events of the past few days, he realized that it was time to take stock of their friendship because right now he didn’t know what they were. It was all very confusing, and he desperately longed for clarity.  


_So. Let’s start._  


He left the corridor where all his childhood memories were stored and took another flight of stairs to one of the largest corridors of his mind palace: the one where everything that had to do with John was stored. It was the biggest because unlike the other rooms he regularly returned to in order to delete unnecessary information this corridor only got larger, never smaller. For some reason, his mind refused to delete any information regarding John, a fact which he often despaired about but couldn’t change all the same. Apparently, John was so interesting and important to him, that he wouldn’t delete even the tiniest information about him and be it the way the man liked his coffee.  


The first file he drew out were odd things he had witnessed John say in reference to the nature of their relationship:  


When Sherlock had referred to him as a friend in front of Sebastian Wilkes, John had corrected him: “Colleague.” That had hurt, he had thought John would appreciate being called his friend instead of acting ashamed.  


It had probably to do with the fact that John hated when other people inclined that he could be gay and he and Sherlock anything else than just friends.  


“I’m not his date!” he had told Angelo on that very first evening.  


“I am not gay!” he had told Irene Adler at the Battersea Power Station and he had scoffed when she said they were a couple.  


He had been angry at the gay couple in Devon who had insinuated they were a couple too.  


A repressed homophobic then. A very easy deduction if not a disappointing one. It had probably something to do with the also repressed nature of the relationship John had with his father, a soldier through and through who believed in conservative role models, masculinity, and the benefits of continuing the Watson line, transferring his genes onto another generation. Being gay would be wrong. Being gay would be weak and that was something John Watson could never bear to be.  


Not that John was gay. He had dated a lot of women since he had moved into their flat, had proven his heterosexuality with it, never had seen Sherlock him with a man nor could he imagine him with one. He never seemed particularly interested in any of the women he brought home but that didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right one until now. Still, John was clearly into women, he was ordinary that way and it was fine. Sherlock didn’t care if he was gay or straight.  


Suddenly he was in the restaurant with John, that very first night.  


“Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way.”  


“I know it’s fine.”  


“So, you’ve got a boyfriend then?”  


“No.”  


“Right. Okay. You’re unattached, like me. Fine. Good.”  


The conversation had been very strange, and Sherlock saw the confusion in his own eyes, saw the wheels turning inside his head as he suddenly came to the realization that John seemed to have just shown his interest in him. He had tried to explain to him that he was married to his work and John had replied that he didn’t mean it like that, and things had been a little uncomfortable after that, even Sherlock had sensed it.  


Although he had turned John down almost instantly leaving out the fact that he had misunderstood, he had felt flattered by John’s apparent interest. At that moment he had been irritated. He wasn’t interested in something trivial as relationships, it only cost time and effort he only wanted to spend on his work. Apart from that, sentiment was a weakness, so obviously it wasn’t an option for him.  


Still, when he was lying in bed that night after John had shot the cabbie and thus ended their case, he had replayed that conversation and to his utter embarrassment, he had felt a hint of satisfaction at the apparent interest in him. Well, at the fantasy of it because apparently, it hadn’t been real so actually that whole matter was a little embarrassing.  


He had misinterpreted John’s question, it had only been friendly curiosity, nothing more.  


So. John was not gay, and he didn’t like to be called that. He had been appalled at everyone around him implying things about them and overall everything had been pretty clear.  


Apart from the fact that it hadn’t. Not really.  


Something about John’s behaviour towards him was off. Something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.  


John had always been a very touchy person. They always touched each other. Fleetingly, shortly, brushing against each other every so often. He had noticed and he didn’t mind it somehow, he usually preferred not being touched by other people. But with John, he didn’t mind.  


It had probably to do with John being a doctor. He always needed to make sure he was okay and touching him, feeling his throbbing pulse underneath his fingers was probably the best way to do it.  


That would explain his behaviour of the past few days. John was very overprotective and although he hated being fussed over like that, it was probably best to accept that it was John’s nature as a doctor to behave like that.  


“Sherlock, look at me! Breathe with me! In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on!” _Helping me through a panic attack after I woke up after the first assault._  


_His worried face, right in front of mine. Full of concern. A hint of fear. Then: professionalism setting in, ordering me what to do. Helping me._  


_Gratitude._  


“Thanks John. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”  


“Of course, Sherlock. That’s what friends are for.”  


John had taken care of him like the very good friend that he was. Sherlock was still incredibly grateful that John had saved him from being attacked – twice – because he didn’t know how he would have dealt with the outcome of the first attack and he knew he wouldn’t have survived the one from the second had John not interceded. He owed John his life, that was a fact.  


In addition, he was also thankful that John had taken care of him, in a medical sense. Even though he hated the physical weakness of his transport he knew it needed looking after from time to time which why it was incredibly handy to have a doctor for a best friend. John had taken care of his wounds, had seen to it that he ate a little, had made sure he slept a little. He had been there when the rape kit had been taken, something that he probably wouldn’t have been able to go through without John.  


He knew he needed John to take care of him and still he resented him for it. For being so fussy, for being so overly protective.  


_He’s overdoing it most of the time and he’s unable to stop himself from crossing the line most of the time. If I say I’m fine, I’m fine._  


He remembered the way he had woken to John holding him in his arms after he had shot that woman. Despite the feeling of utter exhaustion and a pounding headache on top, he remembered the strangely uplifting sensation of being cradled in his best friend’s arms. His face had been full of concern and tenderness and it had been just what Sherlock had needed at that moment. Seeing John right then had pulled him back into reality, away from that overwhelming sense of dread and terror being alone in the room with that woman had made him feel.  


It had always been that way. John was the one pulling him back to himself. Showing him the right way.  


_He keeps me right._  


He took a deep breath and looked at the information in front of him once more.  


_First quick conclusion: theoretically, it is clear that John is the best friend I could have wished for. He has been there for me from the start. He is utterly loyal, he is reliable, he is fiercely protective of me. Sometimes he is too protective which should be the reason why we had so many rows the past few days. I’m someone who needs space, he is someone who needs to take care of people and as I have been in two unfortunate situations twice in a row it is quite logical to have triggered a spell of hysteria of some sort in John, resulting in him fussing over me even more than normal._  


John’s insistence that he wasn’t gay and that he and Sherlock weren’t a couple was a little hurtful, true. But he was sure John didn’t intend to hurt him, it was just a sign of his suppressed homophobia and need to unsure his masculinity that made him repeat so often. It was fine, it didn’t mean anything.  


There was another aspect, one he didn’t consider before: John’s anger.  


There had always been an underlying sense of passive-aggressiveness in John’s behaviour: some sort of frustration that he always tried to suppress but to Sherlock was visible, clear as day. It was there every time he exclaimed that he was not gay. It was there every time he talked about Harry or his parents, the reason for which the subject was banned between them most of the time. It was also sometimes between them when John expressed his irritation at Sherlock rushing off from a crime scene without waiting for John to tag along. That didn’t happen very often though.  


But those past few days, John had expressed his anger openly many times, uncharacteristically so.  


Firstly, there was the viciousness with which he had attacked Sherlock’s assaulters. He hadn’t been entirely conscious both of the times to witness it himself, but a broken nose and a concussion on the one hand and a dead woman on the other were quite the remarkable results. He had been surprised to learn of John’s strong reaction to seeing him assaulted. First, he had been appalled and ashamed, that John had seen him in such a weak position, vulnerable in the grip of perverts, helpless.  


_Pathetic._  


There had been another sentiment, too, though. Pride. That John had been so brave, to take such strong steps to swoop in and save him. He had felt strangely flattered, that him being in a situation like that would bring out such a strong emotional and physical reaction in his best friend. Nobody else would do such a thing for him, obviously.  


Apart from the aggressiveness towards Sherlock’s attackers, John had also shown aggressiveness towards him, though.  


It had started the day after the first assault when Sherlock had declared that he wanted John to find them a fresh case, that the assault didn’t mean anything because ultimately it hadn’t been rape and that he absolutely wasn’t interested in getting a rape kit done. To his surprise, John had lost it then, had yelled at him and called him an idiot for the first time of many. Unfortunately, his stupid transport had collapsed right then, undermining John’s theory that he needed rest and time to recuperate. It was stupid, really. The Rohypnol had still been in his system, that was all. It didn’t mean anything just like the panic attack in his bedroom earlier hadn’t meant anything. His transport was prone to some sort of physical reaction after all the stress, unfortunately, he couldn’t help that, but that didn’t mean that he needed anything else than to forget. John couldn’t see that.  


Then he had shouted at him a second time, at the hospital.  


“You’re supposed to be a bloody genius but all I see is an idiot who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up!”  


“You’re an idiot and that’s why you’ve been hurt so much in the past and the reason you will keep getting hurt in the future. You just can’t keep yourself from being yourself and someday it will kill you, Sherlock! See where your bloody mouth gets you then!”  


Apparently, Sherlock was mostly an idiot to John nowadays. He was right, in some respect, naturally. It had been stupid to take the glass of beer back from the stranger at the pub and it had been stupid to provoke the woman with the gun in her hand (although she would have killed him anyway, provoked or not). Especially regarding the first attack, he was extremely embarrassed that he had fallen for that trick as if he were an innocent, naïve young college girl instead of a grown man accustomed to the way criminals thought. He had been bloody ignorant, John was right to yell at him for that.  


But John had yelled at him for not taking care of himself.  


_For being myself._  


_To John, being me is where the danger comes from._  


No words in his life had ever hurt like that. Of course, he didn’t have a best friend like John before that and so there weren’t exactly many comparable situations to relate to. Never had he been attached to a person like that before, so naturally, nobody ever had the power to hurt him like that.  


He thought of the day when he was eleven and his so-called friend Victor had pointed at him lying in that puddle of mud, laughing along with the others. Calling him an idiot. Just like John had, a couple of times now.  


_And a pitiful virgin, too, on top of that…._

He cringed when he thought of the compassion in John’s eyes and the conversation they had the night after the first assault. 

“I mean that you especially should get help after what happened to you.” 

Somehow, this thing had hurt him deeply. To think that John would pity him because he hadn’t managed to get laid at the age of 36. Not that it had been important to him until then. But at that moment, it made him feel vulnerable in front of his best friend. Exposed. 

John was his best friend and he had fiercely stood by his side the last couple of years but apparently, they had reached a turning point in their relationship. John was on the verge of realizing that Sherlock was not worth it. Because Sherlock was an idiot. An idiot who always put himself in danger. An idiot who was incapable of taking care of himself, who needed someone to cuddle him, feed him, tend to his wounds he so foolishly got because of his repeated stupidity.  


Mycroft’s words echoed in his mind, just recently spoken:  


“Even as a child you managed to exasperate everyone around you.”  


Suddenly, something in his mind shifted and everything around him became blurry and unstable for a moment. The walls of his palace were starting to tremble. He knew the technical reason for it: he was in shock for having realized something distressing and his mind was reacting to it.  


Terror rushed over him and he knew he needed to act quickly to stop his mind from getting damaged. Quickly, he filed everything he had looked at away and grasped the next best positive memory to calm himself down:  


At the hospital, John had, apart from shouting at him, said something else:  


“Sherlock. I was so worried about you when you disappeared from me. Again. I was going mad trying to find you, you can ask Greg. I only want you to be safe, don’t you understand?”  


_He wants me to be safe. He was going mad trying to find me._  


It was just the right memory and it worked to calm himself down.  


Mycroft’s words added to the increasing feeling of calmness:  


“Let him take care of you, little brother. He only wants the best for you.”  


The shaking slowly decreased and then stopped. His mind was quiet once again.  


Then everything started to blur again, as the colours faded to a dull grey. Sherlock knew what that meant. His transport was getting tired, so tired that his mind wasn’t able to work effectively anymore for long. He would have to leave his mind palace soon in order to get some rest.  


_Stupid transport. I need more time to figure this out._  


_I still don’t understand what John thinks of me. Am I only an idiot to him who he is getting sick of looking after, time and time again?_  


_Am I a means to an end, someone to provide him with a body to tend to, to fulfill his need as a doctor to take care of someone?_  


_Are we still best friends?_  


He felt restless and confused and he desperately needed answers, but he didn’t know how to get them. Usually, it was so easy. He just had to look at all the facts and information, stored here in this vast space of his mind, to look at and sort through, a satisfactory result was almost always guaranteed.  


But in this case, he wasn’t dealing with facts. He was given information, true. But he didn’t know how to interpret it. Or rather, he was interpreting things but putting together all this information on John and their relationship, he was completely unable to deduce a result. It was frustrating and annoying, helplessness washed over him as he almost feverishly tried to lay down the facts.  


First and foremost, he wanted to refuse the notion of John thinking of him as just an idiot.  


It was preposterous, John wouldn’t have stayed by his side all this time if he only thought of him that way, right?  


He wouldn’t have followed him to the escort agency after Sherlock had tricked him. He wouldn’t have slept in a hospital bed by his side even after he had gotten hurt.  


He wouldn’t have shot a person to save him. Would he?  


He groaned in frustration because the answer was that he just didn’t know. He wanted to scream at someone.  


At Mycroft, for telling him that sentiment was a weakness. If he understood it better maybe he would be able to deduce the enigma that was John Watson and not be left utterly helpless like he was now?  


At himself, for falling victim to the weakness of sentiment. If he hadn’t befriended John in the first place, he wouldn’t feel the need to solve the mystery of their relationship now. He would have been content to have a friendly colleague at his side, someone to give medical advice, someone to take care of his transport when it needed medical attention or looking after when he was in his mind palace, and of course, someone to share the rent with. A good practical relationship, no confusing unanalysable feelings involved.  


It seemed problems would have evolved from whatever angle he looked at it.  


His frustration growing with every second he paced the ‘John’ corridor and tried to look at files he didn’t before. But there was nothing new. Only files he had looked at a thousand times, he wouldn’t get any new information here.  


_But there has to be something! Something I can work with._  


He felt he would go mad if he didn’t find an answer now.  


John and he couldn’t go on like before. He couldn’t because there was something between them, something he was sure would get them both in trouble and he had to know what it was to prevent something terrible from happening.  


He was still pulling out files, scowling at and disposing of them in seconds but still there was nothing.  


He eventually gave up and sank to the floor on his knees, burying his head in his hands. Never ever had he been forced to leave his mind palace without any answers to his questions at all. Never.  


And this was the most important trip he had ever had to do.  


Stupid. John was right. He was an idiot. Useless. Only exasperating everyone around him, like Mycroft had said.  


It would have only served him right to get raped.  


He had been arrogant, stupid, and blind. Anyone who behaved like he had deserved to suffer the consequences of his actions.  


And if he only was a nuisance to everyone around him – from his parents to his fellow students at school, to Mycroft to John – what good was he to anyone? He was good at solving crimes, brilliant to be exact. Lestrade at least would always be grateful for that.  


But apart from that: what was he worth to anyone? Had he been a good friend to John like John had been to him?  


If he was honest, the answer to that was very clear: he hadn’t been.  


He had been belittling John from the start. Had told him he had a simple mind. Had deduced him in seconds, as if there was nothing interesting to know about John Watson, apart from his status as an ex-soldier and doctor, his problematic relationship with his sister and his psychosomatic limp. John had always openly admired Sherlock’s skill, but Sherlock had only scoffed at that and pitied him for being so simple.  


He had meddled with his relationships with women, so much that they had all left him. He had taken away John’s time, forced him to come to crime scenes with him when he could have spent his time dating, trying to find the right woman for him, start a family.  


And in Devon, he had forced John to go through a nightmare. Forced him to believe he was haunted by a huge monster with glowing red eyes, just to go through with an experiment.  


What was wrong with him?  


Maybe he was what Donovan and Anderson liked to call him: a freak. Someone who was incapable of having real emotions, one who should be shunned. One who would maybe end up killing another person just for the thrill of it instead of just looking at a dead body.  


He was unlike any other person he had met. Except for Mycroft, but his brother was comfortable being who he was because he had stuck to the principle of sentiment being a weakness. In contrast to himself who was party cold, inhuman, a freak and partly, emotional, weak, unstable, at least in everything concerning John.  


He was weak and unstable.  


And after everything he had done to John, it was understandable that John was fed up with him, ready to throw in the towel.  


Surely, it meant that John was going to leave him, after being released from prison. If he got relieved from prison.  


Sherlock shuddered at the thought that there was a probability that John would get sentenced for murder which would put him in prison, maybe for the rest of his life.  


He only prayed Mycroft would be able to prevent that.  


Because surely John didn’t deserve losing his life over what he had done for Sherlock. To save his stupid idiotic arse because Sherlock was too stupid to change. To not be himself.  


He laid down on the ground on his side, curling into himself, and lost himself in the familiar feeling of dread and emptiness. It washed over him almost tenderly, like ripples in a river and he felt his muscles losing their stiffness as he allowed himself to be engulfed by the sensation.  


It was okay.  


Let John leave and live a peaceful life without him. It would be better for himself, too.  


_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._  


He would never make the same mistake again. Mycroft was right: sentiments were a weakness.  


The grey was starting to get heavier, thicker and he knew he had to get out.  


He stood up on wobbly legs and made his way to the exit. This time there was no hurry. His limbs felt heavy, which was ridiculous as they weren’t even real, just a projection of his mind, but somehow it felt real anyhow.  


As he made his way through the corridors, the grey closing in around him, words started to echo through his head, growing louder and louder.  


“You’re an idiot, Sherlock!”  


“Even as a child you managed to exasperate everyone around you.”  


“We are not a couple!”  


“I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit for days.”  


“Suck it like the good little whore that you are.”  


“Freak!”  


_freak_  


He stumbled. His hand shot out and found a door frame which le leaned thankfully against. He really needed to get out, he was losing it. The walls were starting to tremble again, and he knew he had to reach the entrance quickly to avoid damage to his mind.  


He wished Redbeard were here with him. The only one he hadn’t disappointed or failed. A true friend, one that had been happy and thankful just for existing.  


Redbeard had always stood by his side. If only he had lived longer.  


A fresh wave of despair washed over him as he entered the stairway which led to the upper main floor. He was just considering if he could muster up the strength to climb the stairs when he discovered that a new room had appeared just at the end of the ‘John’ corridor. It hadn’t been there when he had entered the corridor earlier, so it must have appeared while he had been there, looking at the files stored here. Which meant that his mind had deduced something subconsciously he wasn’t aware of yet.  


His heart pounded in his chest as he gripped the door handle hard, ready to be blown away by some new clue he desperately wished for. This had to be it. The answer he had searched for all along. The key to his relationship with John, everything he needed to know how to go on.  


He pulled and a pang of disappointment swept over him as he realized that the door was locked. He kept pulling and pushing at the handle like a madman as if it would make it open magically but nothing happened. He kept on pulling while the walls around him kept rumbling and the grey kept closing in on him. He didn’t care, he needed to know what was behind this door, even to the cost of his own sanity.  


When the handle still wouldn’t give way, he pounded his fist on the hard, unrelenting wood of the door, shouting in frustration to open up but it didn’t budge. His ears filled with a terrible, high-pitched noise and he desperately covered them with his hands to protect them. It all started to go to hell and suddenly, he was very afraid.  


_Let it all go then._  


_At least I’ve tried._  


“Sherlock!”  


_John, I’m sorry. For being such a terrible friend._  


“Sherlock!”  


_I just hope they’ll let you go free and then you can live a nice and easy life without me._  


Sudden pain exploded in his cheek and for an instant, the grey brightened up and the noise in his ears receded a bit. It returned but then the pain came back again, and Sherlock realized he was thrown a lifeline.  


He jumped to his feet, sprinted down the stairway, back to the main corridor. He almost stumbled over his own feet and the high-pitched noise was not in his ears but in his whole mind, deafening everything else. It was terrifying. He hastily slid down the stairs and found himself back in the foyer at last.  


“Sherlock, come back!”  


_I’m here_ , he said weakly as he looked up to the ceiling of his mind palace, closing his eyes, letting himself relax in spite of the rumble and noise around him. He needed to relax in order to get back.  


“Sherlock?”  


He opened his eyes and flinched when he saw Mycroft’s face just inches away from his own.  


Instead of the usual expression of scorn and contempt his face was filled with concern. Maybe even fear.  


“There you are, little brother, “he said with open relief, and he leaned back, letting out a weary sigh. “You really had me worried there.”  


Sherlock looked around and saw that he was still on the couch, though somehow, instead of sitting he was lying on it in a horizontal position, his head leaned back against the armrest. Mycroft was sitting on the other end of the couch, having leaned over him apparently to rouse him.  


“Did you just slap me?” Sherlock asked incredulously, as he righted himself up and lifted a hand to his right cheek, which felt a little hot and slightly swollen.  


Mycroft looked a little embarrassed.  


“I must admit, I did. You were making strange noises, it sounded as if you were choking. I knew you were in your mind palace and thought you had probably discovered something upsetting. It seemed you were unable to get yourself out, so I thought I help you, lest you damaged yourself. You know that it can get dangerous in there.”  


“Yes. I know, “Sherlock said, numbly. He stood up and weakly walked over to the kitchen counter to make himself some tea.  


“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked. His voice sounded uncharacteristically soft and Sherlock was irritated though he didn’t want to voice it. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He felt utterly exhausted and just wanted to drink some tea and rest.  


“Sherlock?”  


“Yes, “he said hoarsely and he half-turned sideways, then abandoned the motion and turned back to the tea kettle. “I’m alright. I just need some tea. Do you want some?”  


He didn’t need to look to know that Mycroft looked surprised.  


“Yes, that would be nice,” was the cautious reply.  


He nodded and prepared the tea. Keeping his hands occupied, making the tea, gave him comfort. He was still terrified by what had happened in his mind palace, knew that he had to think about it and try to find out what could possibly be behind that new door. But not now.  


He walked over to the couch with two cups of tea and handed Mycroft one of them. He sat down on the couch again and sipped at his tea, cautious not to burn himself. Mycroft sat down in front of him with a wary expression on his face. He also sipped at his tea, then he cleared his throat.  


“Sherlock, we need to talk.”  


“Not now.” Sherlock looked up and saw the concern and surprise in his brother’s eyes at the state of himself. He normally wouldn’t let his walls come down like this in front of Mycroft, but he couldn’t care less now. He was too weary to participate in their little charade.  


“Please, “he said and something peculiar flashed in Mycroft’s eyes. “I just need a moment’s rest. Then we can talk, alright?”  


Mycroft studied him for a moment, his eyes raking over Sherlock’s weary face, his slightly trembling hands holding the teacup, his expression of defeat.  


“Alright, “he said softly.  


They drank their cups of tea in silence and Sherlock was thankful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter. I've so little time (and energy) to write at the moment :(  
> Then I realized that this mind palace thing had to take place before I could move the plot along so here we are. Not that anything's been resolved now, but still, it had to happen. I hope this mind palace thing isn't too confusing, I know it was confusing me as I was writing it :)  
> Next chapter: back to John's POV.


	15. Chapter 15

“Well, that was quite the short phone call, “Greg observed unnecessarily as he looked at John in growing concern. “What did he say?”

John was still staring at the phone in his hand, his eyes wide and unbelieving. But then he blinked, and he hang up the phone, his shoulders slumped, his body strangely relaxed.

“He says it’s alright, “he said at last, and he had to clear his voice because he was hoarse. “He wishes me good luck.”

“He did what?” 

John was sure Greg was staring at him in disbelief, but he didn’t bother to look, and he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He was tired now and he wanted to lie down and not see anybody.

He followed Greg into another room and allowed them to take his fingerprints without making a fuss. Somewhere in the back of his head, he was aware of Greg’s increasing concern, but he was too tired to explain or to make an effort to seem better. 

_Sherlock doesn’t care, so why should I?_

He let himself be taken back to his cell and he lay down on his cot, curling into a ball immediately, facing away from the door. 

“John?” Greg’s voice was hesitant. “Are you okay?”

John still didn’t look at him. “No, “he answered quietly, “no I’m not.”

“Oh.”

Silence. Apparently, Greg was still hovering at the door, unsure how to comfort his friend.

_Don’t bother, Greg. It doesn’t matter._

But he stayed silent, staring at the wall of undefinable colour in front of him.

“It will be sorted out, John, “came Greg’s voice at last. “Just …. hold on tight, mate, you will get through this. And Sherlock will, too.”

At the mention of Sherlock’s name John squeezed his eyes shut, as a short stab of pain flared up in his chest.

Greg left and he was finally alone.

A deep sigh left his body, and he clenched his jaw shut, determined not to break down now. He had nothing to do now but wait. Let others decide his fate. There was something mystifyingly deliberating about this. He had no say as to what happened to him now. He couldn’t do anything to change what was going to happen. So he resigned himself to his fate and began his task for the next few hours: waiting.

/////

He lost all sense of time but after a while assumed that a few hours had passed. It wasn’t really important though, it didn’t matter.

He still hadn’t changed his position and was still staring at the wall, lying on his side. He was feeling empty. Hollow. Although he had tried to avoid it, his mind was racing through the events of the past days. He thought of the fight in the hospital and his mean words to Sherlock. They still made him wince, even in the sorry state that he was in and he was still angry at himself for saying them. 

_It’s too late to be sorry now. What’s done is done._

He guessed if he ever got out of here, he wouldn’t stay long in Baker Street. Apparently, Sherlock was sick of him and was going to kick him out any time he would return. There was nothing he could do about it so he might as well get used to the idea of it. Of moving somewhere else, into another flat. Without Sherlock.

_This is ridiculous. I am not getting out of this situation, so why am I thinking about this? Prison is where I’ll be staying for the next decade or more and I bet Sherlock won’t be visiting me so soon if ever at all, after what I said to him._

But the very thought of not being near Sherlock and maybe even never seeing him again, caused John’s stomach to cramp and his heart to flutter nervously in his chest, so he stopped thinking about it. How pathetic would it be if he broke down now, just because his flatmate didn’t care about him being in prison?

He sighed wearily and resigned himself to a night without any sleep when steps approached his cell, and someone cleared his voice behind him. He didn’t get up or turned around, just raised his head a little to indicate he was awake.

“John.” Greg sounded exhausted. “Phone call for you.”

That made John scramble up in surprise. He turned toward Greg and raised his eyebrows, a question mark in his expression.

“I thought only one of those were allowed?”

Greg opened the door with his keys and jerked his head to the side. “We’re making an exception. Come on.”

John couldn’t help but feel distrustful. “Who is it, Greg? Is it my mother? If it is, I don’t want to speak to her and neither do I want to be yelled at by my sister…”

“It’s neither your mother nor Harry, John.” Greg was already halfway down the corridor, and John stepped out of his cell. Sudden hope made his heart beat faster.

“Is it Sherlock?”

Greg turned half-way, apologetically. “No, sorry.”

He gestured towards the phone at the end of the corridor. “Just take the call, alright, John? You have five minutes.”

John scuffled the few steps to the phone unenthusiastically. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and he really wished he would be left in peace. But he guessed the privilege of peace wasn’t his anymore. Being sentenced for murder would mean that he wouldn’t get a resemblance of peace for the next ten years or more. Others decided what rights he’d have, which ones he didn’t. He wouldn’t be his own man anymore. Might as well get used to it.

He swallowed as he took up the phone. “Yes?”

“Dr. Watson.”

John sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes wearily. 

_Of course. I should have known._

“Yes, Mycroft? What is it? I have to admit, I’m not really in the mood for a chat, so if you kept this as short as possible, I’d be thankful.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Excuse me?”

John was astonished to hear the exasperated sigh of Sherlock’s brother at the other end of the line.

“I see it’s bad already, “Mycroft continued in the same irritating manner. “I understand. I heard what he said to you and from your point of view, I can imagine it must have been harrowing to hear him say those words to you. They must have hurt.”

He paused for a second, giving John an opportunity to confirm.

“Uhm, y-yes, “he stuttered, taking aback by the unexpected empathy from the older Holmes brother, no matter how irritatingly it was delivered, “kind of, yes ….”

“But it’s Sherlock, Dr. Watson, “Mycroft cut in sharply. “You better than anyone else – except for me of course – must know how he is. Must know why he said those things.”

John was completely out of his depths. “I – yes, he’s sick of me fussing over him, meddling with his life and also of me yelling at him. That’s why he doesn’t care that I’m here. I cannot really blame him, can I?”

Mycroft was muttering something under his breath now and John couldn’t really make out the words, but he was pretty sure he heard “imbeciles” and “only sane person here”. After a few seconds, Mycroft recovered swiftly.

“Dr. Watson, “he said with a dramatic sigh, “I cannot believe I have to explain this to you, but apparently, it’s unavoidable. Sherlock cares about you being here. In fact, he is utterly devastated.”

John snorted. “Ha, that’s sweet. He has a great way of showing it.”

“You know him, Dr. Watson, “Mycroft said impatiently. “You know how he hates to be ambushed by an unexpected development like this, so he shuts his walls down and pretends it doesn’t affect him when nothing could affect him more than this.”

John hesitated. He wanted to believe Mycroft, but he wasn’t convinced. “I- I’m not sure, “he said eventually.

Mycroft sighed once more, and John could practically picture him rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Sherlock depends on you, Dr. Watson. How can you not know that?”

“He depends on me?” John was shouting now, and he saw Greg raise an eyebrow in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t care. “He hates when I fuss over him and he has almost strangled me since the day when he was first attacked. I was the one who forced him to eat and sleep and have a rape kit done, forced him not to work the case the way he’s used to. I’m the one slowing him down, keeping him in chains and he resents me for it. It’s completely understandable, from his point of view. But he certainly does NOT depend on me!”

“Just because he is too stupid to see the reason behind someone taking care of his most basic needs doesn’t mean he isn’t thankful for your presence, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft sounded as if he had to explain the most basic grammar rules to a small kid. “Don’t you realize he’s lost without you? You were the one keeping him sane after what happened to him. Without you, he would have come apart at the seams.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Another pause. Another heavy sigh.

“It really isn’t. But as much as I would like to keep chatting about your fascinating although predictable relationship with my brother, I fear we do not have the time. I called for another reason, obviously.”

John also sighed. He was tired of Mycroft’s condescending attitude. 

“Which is?”

“I called to tell you to hang on. My barristers are working on your case and the odds look promising. I cannot guarantee it, but I think chances are you’ll be released from prison sometime tomorrow, all charges against you dropped.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. “Seriously? Just like that?”

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t sound smug or condescending now, just matter-of-fact. “We have a few options on how to grapple the matter. My people are still not decided which course of action is the best, that’s why it will take some time. A matter such as serious as this needs to be done thoroughly, otherwise, all would be for naught. So please excuse me, I must ask you to stay put where you are for now and spend the night. I’ll make sure you’ll receive a proper dinner though, as well as some blankets, I wouldn’t want you to rest uncomfortably. Would that be agreeable to you?”

A short almost hysterical laugh escaped John’s lips. “Are you serious, Mycroft?” he asked incredulously. “I resigned myself to spend at least the next ten years of my life in prison and you ask if it’s alright that you send me nice things to eat and sleep with until you’re having me released? Really?”

Mycroft didn’t answer and John laughed again as he ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t believe this. The way Mycroft had said it, it sounded as if it were already a done deal he would be released, The next day even.

He saw Greg look at him then, pointing at his watch.

“I- I don’t know what to say, Mycroft, “he said hastily. “I guess thanks are in order.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Dr. Watson, you’re still in prison. I regret I haven’t been able to extract you from there already, but it seems your case is a little difficult. Still, tomorrow midday seems a reasonable timing, so be ready for it. I just wanted you to know that.”

John still wanted to say thank you properly, he also was desperate for information on Sherlock. _Is he eating, sleeping, is he itching for another case or how is he coping?_ So many questions but be wasn’t allowed to express them.

“I’m afraid our time’s up already, Dr. Watson. I’ll get back to my barristers now.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Do you … is he …. do you really think he cares about me being here?” John knew he sounded pathetic, but he couldn’t help himself. He desperately needed to know what Sherlock was thinking about his situation and if there was even the slightest possibility Mycroft was telling the truth. He was his only way of getting an answer, the one with access to Sherlock.

“I’m sure of it, “Mycroft said calmly. “He’s already threatened to kill me and my assistant twice in the short time we’ve been here with him, I don’t think you would have been in any such danger if you were here, don’t you think?”

“I-I just don’t know anymore, “John all but whispered. “I have hurt him, I have pushed him too far, maybe he’s just sick and tired of me…”

“John.”

He froze in astonishment. _He’s called me John. Mycroft never calls me John._

“John, listen to me.” Mycroft sounded almost tender and if the situation weren’t so tense John would have laughed out loud in disbelief. “Sherlock needs you. He is lost without you. He spent the last few hours in his mind palace and the only word that has passed his lips was your name. Over and over again. He was in distress, John, over you being in prison.”

“Wh-what?” John almost let the receiver fall out of his hand.

“I’m afraid time’s over, Dr. Watson. Please hang tight and enjoy your dinner. Get some sleep. Do not worry about Sherlock, he’s being taken care of. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The line clicked and Mycroft was gone, leaving John staring at the phone in his hands the second time this day.

Greg approached him with a curious look, but he didn’t say anything. He only raised his eyebrow at which John just shook his head, still stunned. With the same dazed expression on his face, he let himself be led back towards his cell. He sat back down on his cot, staring into empty space as he tried to sort his thoughts and emotions whirling around in his head.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered Greg staring at him through the closed prison cell door, noticed him opening his mouth as if to ask him something but then someone in the back called for him and Greg left without saying anything. Which was just as well because John himself wasn’t really in the mood to talk right now.

_Sherlock does care after all._

At least it seemed so. Mycroft could be mistaken, of course. He seemed quite sure of his younger brother’s feelings for John, though. There hadn’t been a hint of doubt in his cool, arrogant voice as he stated the fact that Sherlock had always cared for John. His voice hadn’t been cool or arrogant when he told him that Sherlock had called out for John when he was locked away in his mind palace. Instead, he had sounded soft. Gentle. As is he was spelling out the truth to John in a tender manner, as if John needed to be told softly. Maybe Mycroft suspected that John wouldn’t believe him?

_He’s lost without you. He depends on you._

No, no that couldn’t be true. Mycroft was just exaggerating their friendship in order to get John’s spirits up. 

_Sherlock isn’t lost without me. It’s Sherlock. He’s strong and fierce and independent. He doesn’t need anybody. He is his own person and he has this brilliant mind no one can compete with. He is not dependent on me, a simple, ordinary bloke who writes his blog and accompanies him on cases, conveniently enough._

_I am his friend though. He said that, in Devon. His only friend._

Intrigued, John lay down on his cot, once again staring at the ceiling with his head resting on his arms behind him. But this time his mind was not weighed down with depression over being caught in a hopeless situation where a certain someone didn’t care if he was trapped in said situation. This time, his mind was racing through the events of the past few days, as well as those of the past few years, of his whole time with Sherlock.

He thought of the day they had met and how Sherlock’s eyes had lit up when John had praised him for his deduction in the cab, calling him “amazing” and “extraordinary”. The way Sherlock’s eyes had widened later that day, impeccable deductions stuttering to a halt when he had seen John standing behind the red tape and realized it was him that had shot the cabbie. His proud and somewhat amazed grin when he had told him to wash his hands so as to get rid of the powder gun on his fingers.

He thought of the night at the swimming pool and the panicked way in which Sherlock had ripped the Semtex vest off of John. The tension in his lanky body as he paced up and down, scratching his head nervously with the loaded gun. The shaky way the air had left his lungs after the danger had supposedly evaporated and the way they had looked at each other and giggled. Just for a second until Moriarty had come back.

_We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene…._

He thought of their first chase through London’s streets and how they had fallen back against the wall at Baker Street, laughing together, next to each other, a warm fluffy feeling in his stomach.

He thought of them at Buckingham Palace, sitting on a couch, more or less clothed, laughing at Mycroft’s expense. 

John swallowed as his mind turned to other, more recent events.

He thought of the way Sherlock had clung to him when he had found him lying there on the grass in St. Edward’s park. Sherlock had been in a bad way, panicked, drugged, afraid … and he had called for John, he had looked to him for help. It had been the same when John had found him after the second assault. 

It still hurt to think of Sherlock that way. The helplessness, the fear, and the pain in his voice. The vulnerability he almost never let others see. But at the same time, John realized, he was grateful because indeed, Sherlock had needed him in these moments. He had been truly overwhelmed, naked terror had taken him into its grip and he had needed John to calm him, to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay ….

John swallowed once more as he turned onto his side again.

_Am I reading too much into this? Is this me hoping for something that isn’t there?_

He thought of the way his thoughts had somehow wandered off yesterday. How he had suddenly thought of Sherlock as beautiful….

_Well, it is a fact. That man is beautiful, it doesn’t make me gay to admit it. It doesn’t mean anything…_

But as soon as that thought shot through his mind, he shook his head. He knew that wasn’t true. He gritted his teeth, utterly annoyed with himself. He felt like he was the worst coward in the world. He knew he was lying to himself, apparently, he had been doing so for quite some time.

_You like him. Not just as a friend but as another man._

He lay there, stunned with the sudden revelation. He knew it was the truth as soon as he had thought it.

He was in love with Sherlock.

He blinked. He breathed. He turned onto his back again, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

He gave up and resumed his staring at the wall.

_I am in love with Sherlock and isn’t that just great?_

He groaned loudly and pushed his arm over his face as if that would make the truth go away.

_No, no, NO!_

_This can’t be happening. I cannot be in love with Sherlock! He is a man - I am not gay! I have never ever fallen in love with a man - I like women, for God’s sake!_

_That’s ridiculous_ , another voice in his head piped up. _Just because you’ve never met a man as amazing as Sherlock before does not mean you cannot fall in love with one. Just face it, Sherlock is so utterly brilliant, it doesn’t matter that he’s a man._

 _But it does matter!_ he tried to argue weakly. _I don’t know how to love a man, it works differently, doesn’t it? Besides, Sherlock himself is not interested in anything like that, he told me so himself. I’ve never seen him with anybody, he hasn’t shown any interest in anybody. I don’t even think he liked Irene that way. So what if it’s true? He is just not interested._

 _Stop thinking of him that way,_ the other voice chided. _Don’t think of him as a freak like all the others do because he isn’t one. People who only get to know him for a short time believe they know all about him, thinking of him as an annoying psychopath – sorry, sociopath - who doesn’t know how to deal with other people, who is unable to handle his own emotions because he doesn’t have any. But that’s not the truth! You know he is able to feel! You see him feeling every day. He feels for you, John. He cares for you. He has always cared, from the very start._

_Yes, that’s true …. Okay, alright, I concede, he cares for me. As a friend._

He nodded to himself. That seemed a good enough deduction. Sherlock really had his share of problems interacting with people. He was often rude and inconsiderate, treating even someone like Greg - who had often proven himself a good friend - as someone unimportant, someone whose name didn’t merit remembering (though sometimes John thought that Sherlock was just teasing Greg, of course, he knew his name!).

But for some reason, Sherlock had decided to treat John differently. They had clicked from the start and soon, Sherlock had even called him his friend. It had been stupid of John to doubt that. Sherlock had declared it out in the open, it hadn’t been a lie. 

_But that’s it. We’re friends. We can’t be more. It’s nice for him to have a friend but that’s it. Friends. He’s probably asexual, so that’s that._

He groaned again and he buried his face in his hands.

_What am I thinking? It doesn’t matter if he’s interested because I am not interested! I. Am. Not. Gay._

_Yeah, yeah. Are you still going around with that?_ the other voice mocked him. _This phrase is getting old, you know?_

A small hysterical laugh burst out of him and his hand shot out to cover his mouth in shock.

_Alright, it’s starting. You’re going crazy, right here, right now, in this prison cell, fantasizing about Sherlock being your boyfriend._

Boyfriend. What an utterly ridiculous word.

And how unfitting in the whole context of Sherlock.

It just didn’t seem right.

_Or does it?_

John groaned and sighed and moaned as he turned and tossed as he thought and thought and thought. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he wouldn’t get any rest until he had this sorted out, so he best get on with it. This was important now, for his peace of mind. 

His thoughts were interrupted when he was served dinner. And what a dinner it was. 

His eyes widened when Greg approached his cell with a huge plate of fried chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes. There was also creamy mushroom soup. And strawberry cheesecake for dessert.

“Really, John, “Greg said with a smirk, “you must enlighten me sometime how you do it. Make the rich guys do that little wave with their hands so everything just lands in your lap.”

“I-I really don’t know what got into him, “John stammered.

Greg just smirked again. “Nah. Just enjoy it, John. It seems edible and I’m sure you could do with a little soul food for comfort. Mycroft is an arrogant bastard, but it seems he is a useful one.”

John still sat there, stunned at the feast in front of him, and Greg shook his head as he turned away.

“Just eat it, John. Keep up your strength, you’ll need it, believe me.”

So John ate. It really tasted incredibly good and he cleaned away the whole plate. It seemed this whole thinking-about-his-life-thing had awakened his appetite.

As soon as he was done, another officer came and cleared away the dishes. He returned a minute later to hand John a couple of very soft blankets as well as two huge pillows.

John just accepted this too and made himself comfortable. With his now filled stomach and his very comfortable pillows, he felt quite sated. Physically at least. But he still needed some answers, so he returned to his thoughts.

 _As if I had my one mind palace,_ he thought with a smirk and somehow that thought really lifted his spirits. 

Greg came to bid him goodnight at ten o’clock and the lights were turned off, but John didn’t stop his thinking.

He was checked upon at three am but still, his eyes were open his mind racing. 

When the lights were turned back on at seven in the morning, he had just fallen asleep an hour ago. His last thoughts had been full of concern for his best friend.

_Is he sleeping? Eating? Walking circles into our floor like a nervous tiger in his cage because Mycroft won’t let him out and he desperately yearns for his freedom?_

Greg welcomed him with a bright “Good morning” and John was exhausted. He was also anxious because he really wanted to believe in Mycroft and rest assured that he would get out of here today. He needed to get out, he needed to see Sherlock, talk to him, make sure he was alright.

But not about everything.

He knew now for sure that he was in love with Sherlock, there was no getting around that simple truth. 

He probably needed to tell Sherlock. It was only fair. Now that he had realized this, it was almost killing him not to talk about it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to tell Sherlock, he wasn’t sure he wanted anything between them to happen. Maybe it was better just to fantasize about all of this, without ever actually doing anything?

No. He realized he could not bear it. Now that he realized what he really felt for Sherlock he knew he could not go on like before. He needed to tell Sherlock about his feelings. But he knew it would be overwhelming for Sherlock and he was in no state for something big like this so he would have to postpone it until he was better.

Sherlock would still be stubborn about not getting better. Maybe he would still be upset with John for yelling at him as he had at the hospital. As was his right.

He needed to apologise again, convey to his best friend that he really was sorry. And then he needed to keep his mouth shut and take care of him, even if his help wasn’t really appreciated. But deep down he hoped Sherlock knew that he needed John to take care of him.

And even if he didn’t, he still needed to be looked after. He was in some desperate need of healing, physically as well as mentally. The first one would be dealt with sooner or later and John really hoped the shoulder wound would heal fast, he would see to it as best as he could. His mental health was another matter and it would take a lot more time for those wounds to heal. John could only hope that Sherlock would accept his help in that matter. Maybe it would suffice if he just conveyed to him that he was there for him and would never leave him. That he would protect him from now on, not only to make up for failing to do so before but also because Sherlock meant the world to him. Well, at least he would say something akin to that. 

It wouldn’t be easy to get Sherlock on board, that much was clear.

Greg appeared with a generous breakfast of omelet, bacon and eggs, and scones with strawberry jam. He didn’t say anything as he handed John the tray, but his raised eyebrows and slight smirk around his upturned lips said everything.

“Anything new?” John asked anxiously but Greg shook his head.

“Unfortunately not. But my boss wants you interviewed once more.”

John groaned and rolled his eyes. “Seriously? I don’t have anything new to tell.”

“Believe me, John, I know it. But that’s how the whole procedure goes, sorry.”

Greg truly looked sorry and John shook his head. “Don’t apologize, Greg. I know you’re on my side.” He locked eyes with his friend. “I’m really thankful, you know? I know this must be hard for you, too.”

Greg simply smiled, his weary eyes full of understanding. “You’re welcome. And now eat up, you need your strength for the next few hours to come.”

John enjoyed his breakfast thoroughly after which he was taken back to the interrogation room. He barely managed to suppress an exasperated groan when he saw that Dimmock was already waiting for him in his chair, looking even more hostile than yesterday.

“Doctor Watson, “Dimmock said with spite in his voice, “good morning. Are you ready to tell some truths today?”

“I can only repeat what I’ve already told you, “John replied calmly as he met the other man’s gaze and his mouth twitched as he tried not to smirk when he saw him narrow his eyes suspiciously.

Dimmock put him through the wringer for three hours and afterwards John was exhausted. He had spent half the time repeating the same few sentences, the other half scoffing at ridiculous allegations Dimmock was making against him, maybe in a desperate attempt to get him to confess, maybe to find his way around the possible truth, who knew? 

It didn’t get them anywhere and Dimmock himself ended the session at last, after having slammed his fist into the hard steel table in frustration more than once. John had just sat there calmly, feeling surprisingly serene and collected. Nevertheless, he was tired, and he desperately wanted to get out of that sticky room. This was pointless anyway. If they were set on punishing him for saving another human being’s life, so be it – but he wouldn’t do them the favor of making it unnecessarily easy for them.

Fortunately for him, he was being rewarded for his troubles. He had been escorted out of the room by Greg and was already halfway back into his cell, when a young officer came jogging, calling Greg’s name. Greg leaned forward and the man whispered into his ear, glancing at John curiously while doing so.

Greg’s eyes widened slightly, then he nodded and the officer left. Greg turned to John with a huge smile on his face as he held the door wide open.

“It seems you’re in luck, mate. You’re out.”

John’s mouth opened, then closed again. He was speechless. Mycroft had really come through for him. He was free. 

A huge grin crept up John’s face at last. “I guess I owe Mycroft a gift basket.”

“Yes, you do.” Greg grinned back. “Come on, get out of here. Who knows in what state his nibs is currently. I doubt that Mycroft would have left him unsupervised, but experience tells us they don’t get along too well so maybe you should go see if they’re alright. If Baker Street is still standing.”

John blanched a little and Greg’s face fell. “God, John, that was a joke.”

“You know how close to the truth that is, “John replied, and Greg looked apologetic as he nodded. “Sorry, mate. They’ll be fine, I’m sure. Sherlock is strong. He’ll be alright.”

“Maybe, “John said, then he tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, “maybe not. I have to go, Greg.”

Greg jerked his chin to the side. “Off you go. We’ll do the paperwork some other time. Text me later, will you?”

“Will do.”

And John left. On his way out, he passed a visibly fuming Dimmock. He couldn’t resist and let a triumphant smile play out on his face as he tipped his invisible hat. Dimmock’s face turned almost purple and John suppressed a vicious snicker as the door fell shut behind him.

He took a cab which for once had miraculously appeared outside Scotland Yard and drove straight home. He felt anxious and nervous and also a little scared.

_In what state will he be? Will he be alright, physically?_

_Will he talk to me or will he show me the cold shoulder? Will he try to throw me out? No, that’s not really his style. He is more likely to completely ignore me for days until I can’t take it anymore and leave on my own account._

He ran a hand through his hair, swallowed heavily as he stared out of the car’s window, trying to prepare himself mentally for anything that could await him at the flat. Anger, disappointment, resentment – he could deal with all that. It would be hard, and Sherlock could be really mean when he wanted to, even more than in his usual ‘subconscious’ meanness. But he would take it all, swallow it down and then force Sherlock to let him take care of him. Make him see that he really needed to rest, to look after himself.

Illness, that he could also deal with. In fact, that would be easiest. It would give him the best excuse to stay near Sherlock and force them to interact. What reason would he have to do so otherwise? None, at least in Sherlock’s eyes.

But he would stay. He needed to stay. He couldn’t bear to be separated from Sherlock now, even the last 24 hours had been hard. After all that Sherlock had been through these past few days, John desperately needed him to be alright a last, to be safe and sound in his care. When that was done, they could talk and heal and maybe also have a conversation about their feelings for each other, well at least John needed to confess his feelings. Or not. He wasn’t sure he would muster the courage to really speak about it, but he knew eventually it was of importance that he did. 

The cab pulled up at Baker Street. A shaky sigh escaped John’s lips as excitement, fear, and nervousness all welled up within him and he clenched his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. Gritting his teeth, he took a few deep breaths, paid the driver, and got out of the car.

He hesitated when he took the first steps inside the house and waited for sounds. But there weren’t any which immediately caused John’s heart rate to pick up in concern. He had been prepared for shouting and loud quarreling from Sherlock and whatever poor bloke was assigned to look after him. Had something happened that there were no sounds whatsoever to come out of the flat?

John took a few more steps, his head tilted to the side as he still tried to pick up any sounds but still, he wasn’t rewarded. He stopped, unsure of what to do. Swallowing hard, he became aware of his heart pounding in his chest. A knot of anxiety twisted in the pit of his stomach and he suddenly didn’t know how to face whatever situation he was stepping into. Somehow, he felt he was at a turning point. Something was about to change soon in his life, and he didn’t know if he was ready for it. 

John bit his lip and looked down at Mrs. Hudson’s door. 

_Should I stop by hers first? Maybe she could tell me what has been going on?_

But he quickly dismissed that thought. He wasn’t really up to Mrs. Hudson’s mindless chattering, he was much too riled up inside.

He needed to know how Sherlock was. He needed to know he was alright. Right now.

Flexing his fingers nervously, he mustered up his courage, took the last few steps up, and opened the door tentatively.

At first, he thought that no one was home. The flat seemed completely empty and a wave of disappointment washed over him, followed quickly by concern. Had something really happened then? Where was Sherlock? And Mycroft?

But then he recognized the familiar form of his best friend. He was hunched into the corner of the couch, curled into himself, unmoving. He was dressed in a maroon dressing gown hanging loosely around his pale features, around his legs drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. His eyes were closed. It was obvious he wasn’t asleep but somewhere deep inside his mind palace.

John took care to step in silently, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face. He didn’t react to the slight sounds his shoes made on the floor.

John almost held his breath as he cautiously approached his best friend. Sherlock still didn’t react, so he must be really in deep. He almost looked like a marble statue, sitting there like that, not moving a muscle.

John couldn’t help but notice the gaunt lines on Sherlock’s face, his prominent cheekbones protruding even more than usual, the grey tone of his skin. He didn’t look very well.

_He probably hasn’t eaten in a while. Nor has he gotten any sleep. Dammit, is he all alone? Is Mycroft out of his mind? Why has no one been taking care of him?_

Anger blossomed in his chest and he bit into his fist to quell the urge to curse out loud. He didn’t want to startle Sherlock out of his mind palace. If he were in that deep he would need a second to ‘get back’ to the real world and seeing an agitated John directly in front of him probably wouldn’t help.

Just then, he heard someone behind him clear his throat quietly.

He turned in surprise and saw a young sturdy man with short blonde hair look at him from the kitchen. John raised an eyebrow and the man beckoned him to join him with a silent wave of his hand. With one quick look back to Sherlock – he still hadn’t moved – John went over to the kitchen and quietly sat down at the chair, opposite of the young stranger who was eyeing him curiously.

“Hello, Dr. Watson, “the man said amicably as he offered his hand, “I’m Frederic, nice to meet you.”

John shook his hand with a polite smile. “John. So Mycroft told you I was coming?”

“That’s right, “Frederic replied, and he looked at his watch, “you’re right on time. Great.”

“Uhm, so I understand Mycroft has appointed you to look after Sherlock during my absence?” John asked, a little unsure how to begin this conversation.

“Indeed he did. I’ve been here since yesterday at three o’clock. It was a little spontaneous – me being sent here, I mean - but I’m used to this from Mr. Holmes, so I didn’t mind.”

“You are?”

“Yes, of course. I’m almost always assigned missions on such short notice. Although I must admit, that this one is rather unusual. I have never had to tend to the younger Mr. Holmes before, but it was only a question of time, since he seems to be someone who gets hurt quite often and I’m a trained corpsman, back from a mission in Saudi Arabia for two months now. I figured I would be the one assigned to tend to Mr. Holmes’ brother sooner or later.”

He seemed quite proud of his military achievements and his position and John smiled at that. He reminded him of himself, a good ten years younger. Then he frowned. The bloke even looked a little like him with the blond hair and the sturdy frame. 

_Coincidence? I think not. Clever, Mycroft._

He liked Frederic. He seemed a little talkative and also somewhat carefree – something he wouldn’t have deemed possible in staff chosen by Mycroft. But he knew he must be very intelligent as well as professional, or else he wouldn’t have been hired by the strict government man. He cleared his voice and met Frederic’s eyes.

“So, Frederic? How’s Sherlock been?”

Frederic’s smile faltered and immediately, a pang of nervousness shot through John’s body. 

“It’s a little hard to answer that, Doctor Watson. When I came here first, Mr. Holmes seemed well enough. I was warned that he tends to be a little …. difficult when it comes to looking after himself and getting treatment. So I was prepared when Mr. Holmes yelled at me for trying to make him eat and letting me look at his shoulder. To be honest, I still felt uneasy about the whole thing, because I couldn’t possibly force him to be tended to. But Mr. Mycroft Holmes was still there when his brother did that, and he made it very clear that he would not hesitate to return him to the hospital if he didn’t acquiesce to being treated and looked after by me. And this time it wouldn’t be a public hospital but one of the private ones where treatment would be a little different than before. More, let’s say, ‘intense’.”

“Oh, “John said with a tight smile, “he didn’t like that, did he?”

“No, not at all.” Frederic looked chagrined as he shook his head. “He yelled at Mr. Holmes then, too, and he was working himself up so hard that I was scared he was giving himself a heart attack. Or a panic attack. But all of a sudden, all the fight left him, and he went quiet. Honestly, it was quite creepy. As if a switch had been turned off inside him. He hasn’t yelled at me afterward at all. In fact, he has been awfully quiet since then.”

John leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“Well. The older Mr. Holmes told me to call him if Sherlock refused to obey my orders or if he got worse and then he left. I cooked Mr. Holmes some dinner – his brother had some foot delivered here – and Mr. Holmes ate a small portion. Originally, I wanted him to eat more but then he looked at me with such …. I don’t know what to call it – desperation? And I just couldn’t force him to eat more. It took him half an hour to choke down the little he had on his plate, and I figured it was enough for now. He let me look at his shoulder afterward as well as dress the wound anew. Everything seemed fine, he even let me take his temperature and that was fine, too.”

“But?” John grew more and more anxious as he waited for the possible bombshell to drop.

“Well….” Frederic looked a little nervous now. “As I said, he seemed fine, physically at least. He said he would try to catch some sleep, he was in his bedroom for a few hours but I’m sure he didn’t sleep because I could hear him pacing from outside. I thought of calling Mr. Holmes but surely, I thought that would be unfair. You can maybe force someone to eat, but you can’t force someone to sleep. At least that’s what I think.”

John nodded impatiently. “Go on.”

“Well, he came out in the middle of the night and curled up on the couch. He settled into position and then he was just …. gone. The older Mr. Holmes told me what that is, it’s called …. a mind palace, I think? Well, he went there, and he didn’t move until nine in the morning. A colleague was here, so I could sleep a little and she told me that he hadn’t moved while I was sleeping either. She left and I made breakfast. I had to shake him awake and he was really startled when I did that. He ate his breakfast without any motivation whatsoever, and he let me look at his wound again, but he seemed …. I don’t know, completely shut down. As if he didn’t care. It was a little as if he were sleepwalking. He ate, he moved, he spoke, but almost as if he weren’t really alive. I must admit, I was scared a little.”

John grimly thought Frederic was right to feel scared. “So what did you do then? Did you try to talk to him?”

“Oh yes, I did. Mr. Holmes gave me a file with interesting details about cases Mr. Holmes had solved. About things he might find interesting, scientific articles, stuff like that, you know. But he didn’t seem interested at all. Then, suddenly, mid-sentence, I realized his eyes were closed, so I knew he was back in his mind thingy again. He hasn’t moved since then and that’s been …. “ Frederic looked at his watch, “four hours ago.”

“That is quite a lot of time, “John agreed, his worry now increasing by the second.

“Yes. I must admit when Mr. Holmes called me to tell me that you would be here soon I thought of informing him about his brother’s state. He instructed me to inform him at once if his brother showed signs of great agitation while in this state. But that didn’t happen, he has stayed calm the whole time. So I didn’t call the boss. I thought if someone knew how to handle this, it would be you. Right?” He looked hopefully at John who realized that Frederic was scared that he had made a mistake by not telling Mycroft about Sherlock, that he maybe would get scolded for this or worse.

_He was right to worry. I haven’t known Sherlock to disappear into his mind palace for such a long time. Ever._

John realized Frederic was studying him with growing concern and he decided he needed to set the other man’s mind at ease. He really was worried, but he needed to form his own opinion about all this, and he didn’t want to set Mycroft onto this now if it was avoidable. 

So he made an effort to smile easily and leaned back in his chair. “It’s good that you kept a close eye on Sherlock, Frederic. It’s true, it’s a little disconcerting that he behaved like that. But I assure you, it’s probably nothing serious. He has done so in the past, he just does that sometimes.”

“He does? Ah, that’s good to hear. “Frederic seemed very relieved.

“Yes. I’ll look after him now, alright?” John stood up, thus effectively ending their conversation.

“Uhm, yes.” Frederic stood up, too. “Mr. Holmes told me, I could leave as soon as you were here, and I had given you an update on his brother’s condition.”

“Good. You gave him his antibiotics I assume?”

“Yes, of course. His wound seems fine, everything else too, as I said. Only his pulse was a little elevated last time I checked, but apart from that, nothing worth worrying about.”

“Alright. Thanks, Frederic.”

He led the young man to the door by his shoulder and shot him an amicable smile when Frederic seemed a little doubtful if he should really leave it at that. He turned at the door, his medical bag in his one hand, his jacket in the other.

“You’re sure he’ll be alright, Dr. Watson?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“Okay. Goodbye then. Tell him, I said bye.”

“I will. Goodbye, Frederic. And thanks for everything.”

The door shut closed and John once again ran a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath. One look at Sherlock told him still no change.

He paced the room up and down, throwing looks at Sherlock’s motionless form every few seconds. 

_At least he has eaten, taken his meds, has been looked after. I should be relieved about that. He is fine, alright. Physically, at least._

Once again, he registered the pale skin and the tiredness around Sherlock’s eyes, and he stopped in his movements. Suddenly, he wanted to touch Sherlock so badly, he almost winced, overcome by the overwhelming feeling.

“Sherlock?” he called out hesitantly.

No reaction.

He took a step towards the couch, leaned forward, and asked again, this time a little louder. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock till didn’t react and now John was really worried. He knew Sherlock had the tendency to really delve deep into his mind palace when he wanted to and that it sometimes took him a few seconds to react when being called to. But never had it been like this. Sherlock always came out of his mind palace when John called his name.

_I need to touch him. I need to know he is okay._

And sure enough, John couldn’t stop himself from taking the last few steps to the couch, around the coffee table, and sitting down beside Sherlock. He needed to do this now. His heart skipped a beat when he felt the faint body heat radiating from his best friend and he subconsciously leaned more to the side, brushing against him in a very guarded manner.

The couch dipped when he sat down but Sherlock didn’t move. John swallowed heavily and laid his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered a little.

John applied a little pressure to his touch. “Sherlock?”

And just like that, Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “John?”

John breathed a heavy sigh of relief as a thrill of joy simultaneously rushed through him at his friend’s ‘return’. 

“Sherlock! There you are.”

“John?!” Sherlock seemed completely overwhelmed by his presence, his eyes wide open as his body fell out of its position and in his attempt to scramble a little away from John in order to really take him in, Sherlock lost his balance and fell backwards off the couch.

“Ouw!”

“Sherlock! Are you alright?” John’s hands shot out at once to grab Sherlock by his thin arms to steady him. Sherlock stared at John’s hands around his arms from his position on the floor, then at him, his lips slightly parted in shock.

“John?”

“Yes, it’s me. What? Has it been so long already that you’ve forgotten what I look like?” John chuckled at his lame joke, but Sherlock still seemed out of it. His eyes darted forth and back as the detective tried to place him here instead of at Scotland Yard.

“So …. you’re out of prison?”

“Yes, it seems I am. Thanks to your brother, to no one’s surprise, really. I think I owe him a gift basket, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s skin felt warm and soft beneath his fingers and John suppressed the urge to pull Sherlock up into his arms, against his chest where he could feel his heart beating against his. To feel that he was alive and well, here with him.

Sherlock was still struggling, however. Apparently, the long hours in his mind palace made it hard for him to find his way back into reality.

“But … I thought that …” Sherlock stammered a little and wasn’t that a rare thing to behold? “I thought that … there was no way you’d be released.”

John shrugged and smiled. “Well, it seems your brother has more tricks up his sleeve than we ever thought. Come on, Sherlock, let’s get you up from the floor.”

He began to pull at Sherlock’s arms when he was suddenly and overwhelmingly pushed back against the back of the couch. Long, pale arms flung themselves around his neck and he found himself squeezed into the leather beneath him with an armful of detective. 

“John! I’m so glad you’re back!”

John gasped as the weight of Sherlock’s body pressed against his, as he nuzzled his face into John’s shoulder, one short stifled sob escaping his mouth.

“Sherlock?”

His arms automatically wrapped around Sherlock’s trembling back. He laid a hand protectively on Sherlock’s curly head as he allowed the embrace to go on. Sherlock seemed to desperately need the touch, he practically pushed against him almost violently, as if he craved the almost-pain between their touching bodies. He loudly breathed into John’s shoulder and John’s other hand reached out to stroke the detective’s back. He was completely shell-shocked by Sherlock’s behaviour, but his body did all the important motions Sherlock so urgently needed right now.

“Shhh … Sherlock. I’m here now. It’s fine, everything’s fine.”

It was an almost indescribable feeling, holding Sherlock like this. It was so utterly _wrong_ that Sherlock was hurting and distressed yet at the same time it felt so unbelievably, unmistakably _right_ to hold him in his arms, right at this moment. It made him feel …. complete.

He swallowed down a lump in his throat as he held Sherlock even tighter.

Sherlock didn’t cry but he clung to John like a scared child and John wouldn’t let go of him now unless the world ended. The warmth of Sherlock’s hot breath against his shoulder tickled the edge of his face, making his skin tingle. The thin but wiry body felt warm against his own and he frowned when he realised how his heart was jackrabbiting inside his chest.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, please calm down, love.”

All of a sudden, Sherlock pulled back violently, as if he had been struck. “Oh God, John, I’m sorry!” He scrambled back, his eyes wide open in shock, mirroring John’s own.

“No!” John’s hand shot out and just barely got a hold of Sherlock’s before it was out of his reach. “It’s alright!”

Sherlock flinched under his touch and John let go of his hand at once. They stared at each other for a few seconds and John realized his own heart rate was through the roof.

Sherlock seemed to get a hold of himself quicker. “I-I’m sorry, John. I lost control for a second.” He let his head hang down, as if ashamed. “It’s just that I am … so relieved you’re back home.”

“You’re not the only one, “John said quickly. “It’s good to see you, Sherlock. I was worried about you.”

Sherlock looked back up at the same time that John did and they both stared at each other like two deer in the headlights and John almost snorted at the ridiculous image appearing inside his head. But he caught himself in time and he jerked his head towards the kitchen with a little smile on his lips.

“Come on, Sherlock, I’ll make some tea for us, alright? We can talk a little.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened a little, relieved that John would not immediately address the elephant in the room. “Alright. Tea would be alright. I guess. Sorry, I think I’m still a little out of it.”

John offered his hand and Sherlock hesitantly took it. John rose and pulled Sherlock up with him. They stood toe to toe and at once John’s body reacted to the renewed but different closeness. His heart beat in his throat as he looked directly into Sherlock’s still wide eyes, his slightly open mouth, his expression of utter confusion slowly disappearing. He smelled nice. His raven hair shone in the light that fell through the window and John thought it would probably feel wonderful to let his hand run through it, to feel the soft curls between his fingers. 

But because Sherlock still seemed confused and disoriented John took a step back. It wouldn’t do to confuse his friend even more.

“Come on, “he said, as he pulled Sherlock by the sleeve towards the kitchen. “Let’s have that tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make a cut here, the chapter was just getting longer and longer. The next chapter will pick up right where this ends.
> 
> Also, I am so glad I finally had some time to finish this chapter because it's been much too long! Yay! 😊


	16. Chapter 16

“You seemed to be quite deep into your mind palace this time, “John observed quietly, as he led Sherlock to the kitchen table. “You didn’t even notice me entering the room. Care to tell me what that was all about?”

Panic flashed in those deep blue-green eyes and John quickly shook his head reassuringly. “Or not. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Come on, sit down. I’ll make the tea.”

Sherlock moved as if in a daze. He let himself be sat down by John and stared at the empty cup he set in front of him as if it were a complete mystery to him. John was quite worried and tried to distract himself by making the tea. 

“There you go, “John said, as he finally sat down and poured the tea into Sherlock’s cup. Sherlock seemed entranced by the pouring and John tried to focus on what he was doing instead of outright staring at the dazzling creature right in front of him.

Now that he knew how he felt about him, he could barely refrain from looking at him all the time. His eyes flicked over to Sherlock before he knew what he was doing, and he felt sudden heat rise within the pit of his stomach as he took in the bedazzled frown on the other man’s face, his long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, his alabaster skin looking even paler than usual.

_God, he is breathtaking._

John shook his head and stopped an annoyed groan escaping his throat, as he barely avoided making the tea in his cup overflow.

“Are you alright, John?”

Pale blue eyes looked at him in wonder and all the muscles in John’s body tensed up. 

“Y-yes, of course, “he said quickly. “It’s just a little strange … to be able to be here right now, you know?”

Awkward silence settled between them. They both had the same thought and quickly lifted their cups, both blowing at it first, to cool it down a little. John stole another quick glance at Sherlock over the rim of his cup and somehow, they immediately focussed on the wonderful cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s lips as they tentatively sipped at the tea, causing a sudden rush of arousal to spike in his loins.

_God, what is wrong with me?_

He was angry at himself. How could he sit here, and just ogle Sherlock as if there weren’t more important things to do, like comfort him for instance. Tell him that he was here for him now and that he would finally be alright, after all, that had happened. 

“John?”

John looked up and saw that Sherlock had put his cup back down again. “Yes”?

Sherlock glanced at him, insecurity flitting across his face as he bit his bottom lip and looked back down again. He looked to the side for a few seconds, then back up again, directly at John.

“I’m glad you’re back, John.”

His words took John unaware, yet they were spoken in such a heartfelt manner, that a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through John’s chest immediately. He was stunned into silence for a few seconds, wondering what was behind that sudden acknowledgment of sentiment.

“Oh. Oh, really?” he said at last and he looked up again, seeing Sherlock tilt his head to the side in confusion. “I thought you didn’t care that I was in prison. You didn’t seem to when I called you last night. What was it you said? You wished me good luck?”

He winced at the acerbic tone in his voice.

_What am I doing? I already know why he did that, why am I attacking him like that?_

He wanted to say it out loud, but Sherlock was quicker. “I’m sorry I said that John. It was complete rubbish and not true. I … I was scared and didn’t know what to say.”

He looked up and the barely disguised pain in his glistening blue eyes made John’s own heart ache in return. “I apologize, John. It was not okay. I know what you have done for me. You have saved my life. I don’t know how I can ever repay you. You would have gone to prison for saving me had it not been for my brother. There are no words that can make this right. You are a true friend, I couldn’t wish for a better.”

John’s heart swelled at the sudden unexpected revelation from Sherlock’s lips. He couldn’t believe those words, the ones that proved that instead of an analytical cold mind there was a human being behind the hard façade, one that proved that this man cared about him, John, deeply. This man that had hurt at the thought of him away in prison.

_High-functioning sociopath, huh? What a load of bollocks._

“Sherlock….” John’s voice broke and he looked down at his hands, trembling. He looked back up and saw a gleam in Sherlock‘s eyes.

“John, I …. I couldn’t have gone on without you ...” Sherlock’s voice broke as well. “I ... I could barely bear the thought about you in your cell. Alone. Without comfort or hope. I’m so sorry I made you go through that. You must be so angry with me.”

For a moment, John was speechless, and Sherlock seemed to mistake his silence for confirmation of his assumption because he winced slightly and curled into himself. As if he wanted to make himself smaller. Dazed, John shook his head.

“No! No, Sherlock, you’ve got it all wrong.” Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the agitation in John’s face and John almost cursed out loud, frustrated with himself, with his incapability to get his message through to Sherlock.

“You didn’t make me go through anything, “he managed to say eventually, swallowing heavily. “Okay? It’s not your fault I was arrested. It’s not your fault you were almost killed by some madwoman.”

Sherlock snorted and he bit his lip as he shook his head frantically. “But it is my fault, John! If I hadn’t gone to the agency you wouldn’t have had a reason to be there and save me again. I was …. stupid, just like always, reckless, and I should have known better. You were right with what you said to me in the hospital. I am an idiot and I always get us into such terrible dangerous situations. I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock ...” John was completely shellshocked by his friend’s words. He needed him to stop, it had been so wrong of him to say those words to him in the first place.

“No, John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded bitter. Resigned. “No, don’t take your words back. Because you really were right. But here’s the thing.”

He looked up at John who was shocked to see tears glimmering in those wide pale eyes – they were sea green now, and there was fear in them, fear of what John was going to say to him now.

“I guess I could promise you to try to change. I would really try, John. I would try not to just run off when we are at crime scenes. I would try to inform you about anything I discover in my mind palace or any information I come across when we’re not together. I would try and avoid provoking criminals into hurting me when I’m in some kind of a helpless situation. I would try and take care of myself, so I don’t get killed someday.”

John’s mouth and throat felt parched, so he swallowed and licked his lips before he leaned forward a little, trying to make eye contact with Sherlock, get him to look at him.

“Yes?” he whispered. “But that’s perfect, Sherlock, that’s all I ask. All I ask that you try to be more careful, so what would be so wrong about that?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his lower lip began to tremble, and he pressed his mouth shut, obviously annoyed with himself. “I would no be able to keep my word, John. I would still, eventually, fail you.”

John shook his head in helpless wonder. “But … ?”

“I am a complicated person, John. I would try to change, for you, but …. Eventually, I would forget what I promised you and just ruin everything again by … well, by being me, essentially.”

He looked up at John now. “I’m sorry, “he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m such a failure.”

He looked back into his lap, where he was fumbling around with his hands. “I guess maybe you should consider moving out.”

“What?” John asked, appalled, his voice rising. “Why?”

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. “I just told you. I won’t be able to change. Not completely anyway. But that’s what you need me to do, isn’t it? You won’t be able to …. endure my ways.”

“Endure your … Sherlock, what in God’s name?” John stopped talking, rendered speechless by the whole matter and Sherlock’s head whipped up, his eyes wide with fresh fear.

“I’m sorry, John if I said something wrong. I just thought that….”

“Well, you thought wrong!”

John banged his fist on the table and jumped out of his chair, causing Sherlock to stare up at him with wide eyes, shocked at John’s sudden outburst. 

“You have no right to make such assumptions about me! I don’t believe how you could think that of me!”

Sherlock rose out of his chair too. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t want to ….”

“Just stop it, alright? Stop making assumptions!” John was breathing heavily now, his body leaned forward, his eyes ablaze with barely restrained agitation and Sherlock actually took a step back, confused and maybe even a little bit afraid. 

“Alright, “he said slowly, hesitatingly. 

“Good!”

He felt the urge to storm off, to flee this conversation, which was getting much too emotional for him, and just disappear into his room for the rest of the day. It would be much safer there.

But he knew it would be a mistake. Sherlock was incredibly fragile right now and to leave him here like that would be terribly wrong. 

He was looking at him now, his body in fight-or-flight mode, wary, his eyes flicking over John’s tense form as if he expected him to attack any second now. It made John feel ashamed of himself.

“I’m sorry, “he said quietly, and his shoulders slumped down as he forced his body to relax. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you, Sherlock. I’m getting it all wrong.”

Sherlock looked as if he didn’t understand and John shook his head, as he looked towards the window, his jaw clenched hard, his blue eyes suddenly tinged with sorrow.

“It was wrong of me to say those things to you at the hospital, Sherlock. It was horribly wrong.”

“No, John, you were right, “Sherlock cut in, looking more composed than before.

“Maybe, to an extent, “John admitted. “But I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. You were in the hospital, just a few hours after suffering from a second physical assault on you, you were under an impossible strain and I’ve added to that, bloody arse that I am. I am so sorry for doing that to you, Sherlock, seriously I can only ask that you forgive me.”

Sherlock was staring at him as if he had gone mad. “I …. It’s fine, John, really….”

“But it’s not, Sherlock! It really isn’t!” John was working himself up again and he clenched his hands into fists at his side, as he started pacing the sitting room, trying to keep his temper in check. “I’ve overstepped the line. Obviously, we should have had a real talk a long time before that conversation. I’m sorry that all of that just burst out of me and at such an impossible time, too. It’s unforgivable.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, as if he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself. John wanted to say something more, so many important things that he had only discovered for himself recently, but the words got stuck in his throat and suddenly he was terribly afraid. 

“I forgive you, John.” Sherlock’s words were quiet, and he was looking at him calmly, a little sad but determined. 

John opened and closed his mouth again, feeling like a fool. “Y-you do?” he finally asked. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Of course, you idiot.” The corners of his lips twitched upwards, just a tiny bit and there was the old him back again for a moment, the condescending, arrogant bastard he used to be. They grinned at each other, relieved at the reprieve from the taxing conversation. 

Eventually, John grew serious again as he noticed the weariness in Sherlock’s posture. 

“You look exhausted, “he said quietly, and Sherlock’s eyes flitted to the floor. “How do you feel?”

“I feel okay, I guess. Maybe a bit tired, “Sherlock admitted after a while. 

“Alright.” John was impressed and also a little worried that his friend would admit that he was tired. But he didn’t want to overreact, ruining the peaceful truce between them, so he asked casually “Would you eat if I made you something?”

Sherlock made a face but shrugged in defeat. “I guess toast would be alright.”

“Okay, and yogurt, to get some proteins into you, “John said quickly before Sherlock could change his mind again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he let himself be led back to his chair and actually ate the toast and yogurt John set in front of him. They even drank another cup of tea together while Sherlock complained about Frederic and his inability to make a decent cup of tea or understand that he wasn’t interested in listening to his ‘juvenile’ war stories. He didn’t mention his almost-panic attack or the way he had completely shut down afterward and John didn’t see sense in addressing the matter now. Besides, he was enjoying the casual conversation they were having, as opposed to the many heated arguments they had engaged in during the past few days. It almost felt like old times to John and from the way he was smiling into his cup, Sherlock was enjoying it too.

Afterwards, John took a look at Sherlock’s shoulder. The wound still looked rather inflamed and he cleansed and changed the dressing with utmost care. Sherlock claimed that it didn’t hurt much but he didn’t believe him. Sherlock was a master of bearing physical pain, as well as concealing his pain in front of others, especially John. 

He gave him his antibiotics which Sherlock took without complaint and then they agreed to go to bed.

“Goodnight Sherlock, “John said with a hesitant smile as Sherlock approached his bedroom. “Sleep well. Please call me if anything’s wrong. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock stopped in his steps and looked back at him, a frown on his pale face. “You really don’t need to do that.”

John met his gaze steadily. “Oh, but I do.” 

They looked at each other for a few seconds, trying to gauge the other man’s thoughts. After a moment, Sherlock’s lips curled into a tight smile. “Alright, suit yourself. Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

/////

_John found himself in an old warehouse, once again. He was running through the dirty, decaying building, and his mind was focussed on one thing only: he had to find Sherlock. He was in danger again, he just knew it. And he couldn’t allow that. Sherlock mustn’t be in danger again, ever again._

_He couldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t._

_He searched for hours but he couldn’t find him. He was hysterical, screaming Sherlock’s name until his lungs almost gave out but there still was no sign of him. So John ran out of the warehouse, only to find himself in front of another building. Maybe Sherlock was in there. Again, he searched and searched but again, he couldn’t find him. He found more houses to search but never did he find him. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth._

_Refusing to give up, John entered the last house from a seemingly endless row of houses he had searched. It seemed to be empty too, but when he finally entered the basement, he found a motionless figure lying face down in the middle of the room. John’s heartbeat in his chest when he stepped nearer and crouched down next to him. His brain had already registered the noticeable lack of movement in the still body, but he needed to see for himself what was wrong._

_He turned the body onto its back. It was Sherlock. His face was deathly pale in the dusky room, weak light from a tiny window in the back eerily casting shadows onto his rigid features. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead._

_He was dead._

_Eyes that once had been a myriad of shades of blue and green and grey were now dull and empty as they stared up at him and something shattered within John when he looked into them. There was no light left there, no life, but there were accusation and John could hear the deep familiar baritone inside his head, clear as day._

_“You have failed to protect me, John.”_

_“You have failed me.”_

“No!”

John awoke with a start, springing into a sitting position. He gasped for air, hands clenched into the sheets at his sides, and he needed a few minutes to calm himself down.

_It’s okay. It’s alright. It was just a dream, calm down._

He slumped back against the pillow and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when it came back clammy, realizing he had broken into a sweat in his sleep. Now fully awake, he got up from the couch and padded into the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and almost drained it in one go. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face in the sink, after which he felt a bit better.

Afterwards, he lay back down on the couch, but sleep refused to come which really shouldn’t have been a surprise. After that dream, it would have been something of a miracle, if he had just fallen into a peaceful slumber. So he found himself staring at the ceiling once again, after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours but in all probability were only minutes.

He listened for sounds from Sherlock’s bedroom, but everything was quiet. Apparently, Sherlock was sleeping. Or he was in his mind palace where he wouldn’t make any sounds either, sitting statue-like in silent deduction mode. Frozen, but within, his mind would be alive like a whirring hive of bees, working and analysing without pausing to rest.

Suddenly, he needed to make sure he was okay. After everything that had happened the past few days, John was unable to trust the peace and quiet. It felt almost surreal, lying here on the sofa, safe and sound, with no blaring sirens, no interfering Mycroft, no bickering Sherlock.

Just a few hours ago, he had been convinced he would spend the next ten years in prison. 

_Should it really all be over now?_

No. Even if he was truly being acquitted of all charges, even if Sherlock’s remaining tormentor was put away, unable to harm him anymore, Sherlock was far from fine. The usually so haughty, condescending detective who had always been able to reduce people to blubbering, stammering messes in the face of his often cruel albeit correct deductions, was now nothing more than a simple human being that had gone through a terrible ordeal. 

Because this was a fact that nobody seemed to get about Sherlock. He was a human being. He had feelings just like everyone else. He was breakable. Vulnerable. He was able to feel hurt and remember it, suffer because of it, just like everyone else.

Even he, John Watson, who had been allowed quite a few glimpses into Sherlock’s humanity over the last few years, had never known the full extent of his best friend’s fragility.

Sherlock himself seemed rather overwhelmed by the emotions flooding through him momentarily.

_No wonder, after everything that has happened to him. No one could expect him to behave normally after that._

But this? Sherlock falling off the couch, shocked to see John? Scrambling into his arms, shaking like a leaf, with tears in his eyes, as he was apologizing to John, convinced that he was responsible for John’s misery, even if the truth couldn’t be further from that. 

John was amazed to see this new side of Sherlock. It was terrifying, in a way.

It was also extremely revealing, and he felt as if a piece of a puzzle had slid into its right place. Yet he still didn’t have the full picture.

He knew he needed more information, something was still missing. However, right now he just needed to make sure that Sherlock was alright. If he were in his mind palace, he had to rouse him and convince him to get some sleep instead. Sherlock seemed intent on making John happy right now so even if it was a little unfair, he needed to take advantage of his fragile state of mind. He would be doing it in favour of his health, after all.

The light shone through the unveiled windows and cast an eerie shadow throughout their living room. The floor creaked under the soft, hesitant steps of his feet. He was desperate to avoid making any sounds in case Sherlock was unexpectedly asleep, so he tried to step even lighter. 

A sudden thought hit him, and his head shot to the front door, a knot of fear twisting in his stomach.

_Has he gone out again? Left me again?_

He relaxed immediately when he saw the familiar Belstaff hanging on the rack, Sherlock’s favourite blue scarf wrapped around its collar. It was all good.

His eyes flicked over to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. 

_I should make sure he’s okay. Just a quick peek and then I’ll leave again._

_Do you really think that’s a good idea?_

There was that other voice again and John sighed internally, annoyed by his own inner ambiguity. 

_I’m his doctor, too, he told himself. It is my duty to make sure he’s getting the rest he needs._

But before he could voice more doubts and dissuade himself from entering Sherlock’s room, a sound came from within the room and John moved without hesitation because there was hurt in Sherlock’s voice and his body reacted to that sound like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t have stayed put if his own life depended on it.

He bolted inside and stood still as he took in the picture in front of him: there lay Sherlock on his back, clad in one old T-shirt and loose sweatpants, the sheets kicked to the floor beside the bed. He was muttering in his sleep, sweat glistening on his forehead as he tossed from right to left, his hands curled helplessly into the fitted sheet beneath him. 

“No, “he moaned softly as his head jerked to the side, his eyes still closed, “get away from me.” He bit his lip in his sleep, little gasps of air leaving his slightly parted lips as he shivered and curled into himself. “Please, no.”

Without thinking, John rushed forward to lean over Sherlock’s restless form. “Oh, Sherlock, “he muttered as he laid his hand on the man’s hot forehead. “Oh no.” John held his hand against both of Sherlock’s clammy cheeks and found the same burning skin there. 

Sherlock, however, was shivering, trembling all over his thin body. He tried to make himself warm by curling into himself and when John touched his arm, Sherlock pulled at it, trying to pull him towards his body, seeking his warmth although he was still asleep.

Gently, John disentangled himself from his friend’s arm and then slipped outside to get the thermometer from the bathroom. His heart was beating in his chest as he frantically searched through his medical kit to find it, nearly throwing it all on the ground in his anxiousness when he couldn’t find it immediately. 

He finally found it and quickly returned to Sherlock’s side. 

“Hey, “he said softly, as he sat down beside Sherlock lying on his side and tried to pull him towards him, onto his back. “Come here, love. I need to take your temperature.” He managed to position Sherlock so that he lay with his head on John’s thigh.

Sherlock moaned softly but didn’t protest when John cautiously slipped the thermometer between his lips. 

“That’s good, love, keep still for me, “John whispered as he gently stroked through Sherlock’s sweaty curls. “Just a few seconds more, alright?”

The thermometer beeped and John deftly pulled it out of Sherlock’s mouth.

_Dammit. 39.2°. Dammit!_

So the wound had gotten infected after all.

He sighed and ran his hand over his mouth as he looked at the man lying beside him.

“Sherlock, “he said softly as he shook his shoulder. “We need to get you back the hospital,” Sherlock whined and shrugged John’s hand off, curling even more into himself.

“Sherlock.” John sighed again. “I’m sorry, please wake up.” He shook him a little more firmly and Sherlock’s eyes finally fluttered open, blinking in confusion as he looked up into John’s face.

“There you are, “John said, and he cupped Sherlock’s jaw with his hand, stroking the side of his face with his thumb, a sad smile on his face. “we need to go to the hospital now.”

But as soon as he had said the words, Sherlock’s eyes widened in panic and he started to shake his head. 

“No, “he whispered desperately, “no, not the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but your temperature is over 39 degrees. You’re burning up. You were released only under the condition that you’d return if you developed a fever. So come on, get up.”

But Sherlock struggled free and scrambled backward on the mattress, away from John.

“I said no, “he said, a little louder, his eyes a little clearer than before. “Please, John, I don’t want to go!”

John forced himself to sit still, lest he frightened the other man further away. “I know you don’t want to go, “he said softly as he slowly placed his arms into his lap, opening his palms upwards in a what he hoped calming, peace-offering gesture. “But we need to get you into medical care. Please understand. You need help.”

“Can’t you do it, John?” Sherlock’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears and John found himself mesmerized, unable to speak for a second. Then he recovered. He blinked and slowly shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I don’t…”

“Please, John, please!” Sherlock’s whole body was trembling, and he was breathing heavily as he wearily laid his head onto the mattress while keeping John in his vision. As if he was expecting him to pounce on him to drag him away. In his weakened state, he wasn’t strong enough to fight John off and they both knew it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t plead with him to stave off the unavoidable.

“Please, “he repeated, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to get some oxygen into his lungs with obvious effort. “I cannot bear being in a hospital again. I’d go crazy. Please, please, please.” Something that almost sounded like a sob left Sherlock’s throat and he buried his face in his arms as he curled into himself again, still repeatedly pleading with him - “please, John, please”, his restless body shifting back and forth as it fought the unrelenting fever burning within.

John stared at him, distressed at the sight of Sherlock in this unusual state – upset, unsettled. Almost uninhibited. This was a man in pain, a man scared out of his wits, and he needed someone to take care of him, desperately.

Slowly, he scooted closer and he raised a hand over Sherlock’s head where it hovered in the air, hesitatingly. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice him.

“Please, John.” 

Sherlock’s words were nothing more than a whisper now and John’s heart was breaking when he still heard the desperation in those two words. Sherlock was slowly slipping away, and he needed to make a decision. Now.

_I cannot fail him now. Not again._

Grim determination settled around the corners of his mouth as he pulled Sherlock up and into his arms, frowning when he realized once again how hot he was. Beads of sweat had collected in the back of his neck and John cradled Sherlock's head in his arms as he gently patted his cheeks, trying to rouse him again so that he would listen.

“Okay, Sherlock, listen to me, “he said firmly, and Sherlock’s eyes opened again, heavy lids at half-mast because he was apparently just moments away from falling asleep again. “We’ll stay here for now, alright? I’ll take care of you. But we’ll go straight to the hospital if the fever keeps rising or if your overall state worsens. Alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and John shook him, worry spiking up again. “Sherlock?”

The green-blue eyes opened, just barely and there was an almost indiscernible nod of the head. “Y-yes.”

“Yes?”

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes squeezing shut as the tiny movement seemed to cause him pain. John nodded, more to himself than to the man in his arms, then he carefully laid Sherlock down onto the sheet, disentangling him from his arms.

“Alright. Okay.” He leaned over Sherlock and stroked the side of his face, frowning at the feel of burning skin. “I’ll just get some things, alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just hummed and John scooted back up to the edge of the bed but when he got up there was a weak tug at his arm, and he turned to see Sherlock’s thin wrist encircling his upper arm. He looked up and was met with Sherlock looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, exhaustion seeping out of every single pore. 

“Thank you, John, “he whispered, and John’s heart stopped in his throat at the sight of him.

Tenderly, he took Sherlock’s wrist from his arm and held it in both his hands, slowly stroking him reassuringly. “Of course, “he said quietly. “Always, for you.”

A tiny quiver at the corner of Sherlock’s lips told him his message had been received. Then the eyes closed again, and Sherlock’s head lolled to the side as he groaned in open discomfort.

“Right, “John said quickly and after one last reassuring squeeze, John let go of his hand and hurried out of the bedroom to get the things he needed.

First, he got a glass and a bottle of freshwater out of the fridge, thankful not for the first time for Mycroft’s interfering ways. He got a package of ibuprofen out of his medical bag and the antibiotics, too. It wasn’t time yet for the next dose of medicine, but he knew he would need to administer it at some point in the night. He filled another small bowl with tepid water and got a clean cloth out of the bathroom cabinet.

He brought all that into Sherlock’s bedroom and dropped it on the bedside cabinet. One quick look at Sherlock’s motionless form told him that the man had nodded off again, but he was also tossing and turning again, shivering almost violently.

“Hold on love, I’ll be right back, “John murmured before he darted off again to retrieve some more blankets and pillows from the cupboard in his own bedroom. He detested having to leave Sherlock alone for even a second more, but it needed to get done and he concentrated on moving quickly and efficiently because it would certainly not be helpful if he fell down the stairs in his hurry to get back to Sherlock and broke his legs now. 

His arms full of heavy blankets, he returned to Sherlock, threw the blankets on the chair in the corner, and quickly sat beside his friend, slightly out of breath.

“Sherlock?” he asked as he patted his cheek again. “Hey, Sherlock. I need you to wake up for me, love, just for a minute to drink some water and take your medicine, then you can go back to sleep again. Come on.”

Sherlock groaned but refused to wake and John propped up a large pillow against the bedhead. Gently, he pulled Sherlock’s body upwards and hoisted him so that he lay with his upper body against the pillow. Sherlock groaned some more, and John winced in sympathy.

“I know it hurts, love, just bear with me, alright?” he said softly. He poured some water into the glass and raised it to Sherlock’s lips, together with the tablet of Ibuprofen. 

“Here.” He gently grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pulled a little, so that his lips parted. He laid the pill onto Sherlock’s tongue and pressed the glass to his lips. “Drink this.” Sherlock’s head turned, away from the glass but John cupped his jaw and pulled him back towards him with gentle force. “Please, Sherlock. It’ll only take a second.”

Without resisting further, Sherlock allowed John to dip the glass forward and he swallowed the tablet down with just a couple of quick sips. When John tried to get him to drink the rest of the glass Sherlock closed his mouth and shook his head.

John hesitated. He didn’t want to push Sherlock, but he needed to stay hydrated.

“Please, “he asked again as he pressed the glass to the tight line of Sherlock’s lips. “Please drink this, you need to stay hydrated. Please. For me.”

Sherlock nodded weakly then, and he drained the rest of the glass, turning his head away in exhaustion as soon as he had finished.

“So hot, John, “he croaked as he edged closer to him, angling his lean body towards him. “I- I can’t …. John ….” He was breathing heavily again, shifting anxiously, and John quickly pushed him back against the pillow, stroking his curls reassuringly.

“Hey, hey … it’s alright. Just lay down.” 

He drenched the cloth in the tepid water and laid it on Sherlock’s forehead, tiny droplets of water dripping down the side of his face. It seemed to help immediately as Sherlock sighed, his body’s frantic movements slowing down as he settled against the pillow behind him.

“That’s perfect, Sherlock, feels better now, doesn’t it? Just go back to sleep, love.” 

It was difficult but John managed not to give in to the urgent desire to press Sherlock to his own body into a comforting embrace because he really didn’t need the additional body warmth right now. Instead, he lay down across from him, their bodies turned toward each other and continued to soothingly stroke Sherlock’s head.

It seemed to help his friend calm down as his face relaxed underneath John’s careful touches and after a few minutes, Sherlock was sound asleep again, for once breathing peacefully. John found himself staring at the face of the man across from him, deathly still and pale, a shine of sweat at his hairline, unruly curls falling down into his face from the sides. 

_What have you done to me, you impossible, beautiful, brilliant man?_

He guarded Sherlock’s sleep for a long time. When Sherlock began to fidget again, he took the cloth off his skin and refreshed it with more water. A quick check of the temperature told him that the fever had barely dropped. He sighed although he had already anticipated that this would not be over that quickly. The fever had been kept in check when it had been first inflicted, it had only been very light. But after that second assault, different bacteria would have settled within the laceration, making it difficult for the antibiotics to fight the various heterogeneous attacks. The fever was raging in earnest now and it would not be easy to get it down.

_Have I been right to let him stay here?_

John bit his lip as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock’s body, now facing away from him after tossing and turning for a while. 

_What if I’m wrong? What if it’s too dangerous to not keep him monitored? He has been through so much stress lately, at some point his body could just give up._

He shook his head, frustrated, refusing to let his worries overwhelm him. It just had felt right to allow Sherlock to stay here with him. He was a doctor, wasn’t he? They wouldn’t do much more in the hospital than he could do here. They would give Sherlock his medicine, watch his temperature, just as he was doing here. He had looked at the wound, kept it clean, had changed the dressing. He had kept him hydrated.

There was nothing else he could do now but wait.

_Oh Sherlock. I just wish you could finally get some peace after all that’s’ happened to you. I just wish we could … get some time to figure out how to continue …._

He groaned at his own ridiculousness. Sherlock’s health was his priority now, nothing else mattered until he was okay again. He could think about the complicated nature of their relationship after Sherlock had recovered from … well from everything. Not only from his physical injuries but also from the mental stress he had had to endure for the past few weeks. 

And even though John knew he had only wanted the best for Sherlock, he knew he had not always handled matters in the best manner. He had hurt Sherlock by belittling him, calling him vulnerable for being inexperienced in sexual matters. He had pitied him. 

_God, how dumb of me._

He bit into his thumb’s cuticle as he swore to make it up to Sherlock. He would not belittle him anymore. He was a grown man and he was a strong, independent person. If he needed John to give him space that’s what John would do. Even if it meant he would go crazy worrying about Sherlock all over again.

It seemed there was little else his mind could focus on nowadays.

His eyelids were getting heavy despite his best efforts to keep them open. Although he couldn’t sleep directly next to Sherlock, he needed some connection between them to reassure himself. He also needed to stay alert to some extent in case something was wrong with his best friend. It was a good thing he still had the light sleep of a soldier, ready to jerk awake at the slightest sound of danger.

He reached out and cautiously laid an arm around Sherlock’s waist. The urge to pull Sherlock flush against his chest was overwhelming. The concept of them sleeping together with him protectively spooning Sherlock from behind seemed awfully enticing to him, but he kept himself in check and maintained the open space between them, their bodies only connected by John’s arm around Sherlock’s middle.

He could feel the other man’s chest rise and down underneath his hand and it lulled him into a peaceful slumber.

///

He woke up a little later when he felt a body next to his, its radiating heat stifling and merging into him. He opened his eyes to find that Sherlock had scooted over and was now clinging to him like a koala. He was still lying on his side, one leg thrown over John’s hip, his face buried in John’s shoulder and he was shivering violently against him.

“Sherlock?”

Worried, John pushed Sherlock a little away so that he could get a good look at him, but Sherlock whimpered and tried to push himself back against John’s body again.

“S-s-s-so c-c-c-cold, J-John, “he said through chattering teeth, “p-please, I-I n-n-n-need you.”

John’s heart stuttered in his chest at those words and he froze for a second, uncertain what to do. But Sherlock had no such inhibitions and he pressed further against John’s side, almost as if he wanted to melt into him, so desperate was he for the warmth of the other man’s body.

“P-please, John, I- I can’t ….” His pleas were a helpless stream of distraught whines, there was nothing left of the calculated, controlled persona the detective usually projected onto the outside, only raw, unveiled desperation, from a man seeking out the comfort he so frantically needed. His long thin fingers clawed against John’s back as he tried to push John against his own body and John was almost sure that Sherlock was not really lucid because he couldn’t imagine Sherlock losing his cool like that intentionally. He was clearly not his usual self right now.

“Okay, “he breathed, his mind whirling with the surrealism of the situation, “alright, Sherlock, let me get up and get you some blankets ….”

“No!” Sharp nails dove into his back, stopping John’s movement mid-way. “No, p-please, I-I don’t need any s-stupid blankets, I just need you ….” And Sherlock emphasized his words by burying himself further against John’s chest, a sob leaving his throat as his body continued to shiver violently.

“Okay, okay, calm down, love, I’ll stay.” He stroked Sherlock’s curly head and sighed in relief when Sherlock indeed seemed to calm down underneath him. Without disentangling from the man, John extended his arm backward and fumbled beneath the edge of the bed. Luckily, he had lain just at the right place and he managed to grab the discarded bed sheets and pull them over the two of them.

Once they were tucked in tightly underneath the sheets, he pressed Sherlock against himself and started to stroke his back soothingly, muttering stupid little nothings directly into Sherlock’s ear where the man was curled underneath his chin, praising him for how good he was and how well he was letting John take care of him.

Sherlock’s tremors decreased until they were suddenly gone completely. Sherlock sighed in content and nuzzled into the collar of John’s shirt as he finally relaxed and once again fell asleep. A wave of tenderness washed over John as he held the sleeping feverish man in his arms, and he felt as if nothing in the world could persuade him to let go of him now. He was holding the most precious thing in his arms and he would protect him from whatever wanted to harm him. Or whoever. 

Nobody would ever hurt Sherlock again. Not if he had any say in it. 

He pressed a soft kiss onto the top of Sherlock’s head without really thinking about it and frowned when he realized that Sherlock was still radiating heat as if he were on fire. The fever was still tormenting him, and he would soon have to wake him to check his temperature and get him to drink some more water. 

But for now he would let him get some more much-needed rest.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was drifting off again.

////

_It was summer. The sun was shining, and Sherlock was perfectly well and uninjured. There were no bruises on his perfect, alabaster skin, no bandages on his shoulder. He was laughing as he walked beside John in the park. They had just solved another case, had chased after some low-level burglar and apprehended him together, handing him off to a smiling Greg on their way out of the grubby backside alley. They were running high on adrenaline and endorphins, Sherlock praising John how well he had brought the criminal down with just one well-directed punch to his face. Suddenly they were holding hands, looking at each other with surprise on both their faces, quickly changing into unveiled desire._

__

__

_His heart beating in his throat, John pulled Sherlock towards him. He was standing on a step above him, so they were at eye level and his gaze was dropping to Sherlock’s lips. Something in Sherlock’s bright blue eyes shifted, his pupils dilated and then he was leaning forward, his face hesitating just a few inches away from John’s._

_Taking the last remaining step that they both needed so much John cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and pushed while he moved forward at the same time. Their mouths met in a startlingly sweet and tender kiss until Sherlock moaned, parting his lips, inviting John in. John responded at once and pressed Sherlock flat against his body as his tongue flicked forward to lick into the other man’s mouth. He ran his hands subconsciously through Sherlock’s unruly curls as he tilted the man’s head to the side to try out another angle_

_and God, it felt amazing._

_“John, “Sherlock whispered, as they broke the kiss to gasp for air, pressing their foreheads against each other. “John….”_

_“I know…” John answered, and he laughed quietly as he gently cupped Sherlock’s face and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock groaned and they started kissing again, lost in each other as sudden heat invaded John’s body, making him want to just grab Sherlock and…._  


“No! No, please don’t touch me!” 

John’s eyes flew open as the desperate cries next to him finally registered with him. With a start, he raised himself, all his senses on high alert, his body ready to attack any unwelcome intruders. Then he realized what had happened. 

“Oh no, Sherlock, no.” Sherlock was still right next to him, his body hot and flush against John’s but now he wasn’t clinging to him anymore. Instead, he was trying to get away from John, his hands pushing at John’s chest, his legs kicking frantically against John’s. His eyes were wide open, but he didn’t seem to know where he was as he was desperately trying to get away and John suspected that he had just opened his eyes and wasn’t really awake yet.

“Hey. Hey, “he said as he clasped Sherlock’s hands into his, trying to get him to stop thrashing about. “It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s just me. We’re home, in your bedroom, just you and me. Calm down!”

Sherlock’s wide eyes focussed on his and there maybe was a spark of recognition, but he still kept on thrashing and John reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I said stop it, Sherlock, calm down!” he ordered loudly, using his Captain Watson voice, surprising even himself. Sherlock’s eyes widened further, and he froze at once. After a few seconds, he finally relaxed and rested his head wearily against the mattress. “John?” he asked, and he sounded so tired and exhausted that John choked back a sound of distress in the back of his throat. 

“Yeah, it’s me, you daft git, “he murmured as he scooted nearer to Sherlock and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Calm down, it’s just me.” Sherlock trembled against him and he closed his eyes again. They lay there for a considerate amount of time, in which they both seemed comfortable drawing comfort from being near each other.

John’s brain eventually started to ask mean questions, forcing his bad conscience to the surface. He had allowed himself to sleep next to Sherlock, possibly traumatizing him even more. Just when he was about to really work himself up into hating himself, John realized his friend was feeling a lot hotter than before. And he was completely limp in his arms. Something wasn’t right.

“Sherlock, “he said, and he tried not to let panic creep into his voice, but he knew he was failing. “Sherlock, look at me.”

He cupped Sherlock’s face and tilted it upwards, frowning when Sherlock didn’t react, his head lolling to the side in John’s hand, eyes closed. 

“God, you’re burning up.”

His heart raced as he tried to get his thoughts into order.

_Temperature. I need to check his temperature._

He lifted himself up and carefully pressed his fingertips to Sherlock’s carotid artery, closing his eyes for a moment when he found his pulse, as expected, racing. He kept on counting as if that would somehow make the number change into something slower, while he fumbled for the thermometer from the bedside table. Sherlock didn’t react at all when the thermometer was shoved into his mouth and John immediately knew that was a bad sign.

_40.5°. Fuck._

“Okay, “he said, more for his own benefit than Sherlock’s. “Alright, I’m calling an ambulance.”

He pulled a slack Sherlock into his lap and not too gently patted his cheek. “Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock didn’t and John tried to push down the panic rising within him.

He shifted and grabbed the phone from the table which he luckily had left there along with all the other stuff he had brought. He quickly unlocked the screen with trembling fingers.

But just as he was about to press the call button after dialling 999, he stopped himself. Sherlock had begged him not to admit him to the hospital again. Thoughts of Sherlock having a panic attack at the sight of paramedics entered his mind. Images of Sherlock in a hospital bed, crying and lashing out in frustration or even fear, maybe even having to be restrained to the bed, appeared before his inner eye, and his fingers shifted away from his phone.

_Am I insane? What’s there to think about? If the fever rises even higher, it could cause brain damage, for God’s sake. He needs medical attention right now, tough luck if he doesn’t like it. He isn’t even conscious and wouldn’t notice if they took him away now._

But something held him back.

And then he had an idea. 

Without thinking, he got off the bed, leaned forward, and scooped Sherlock up into his arms. His bad shoulder protested a little, but John ignored it. Sherlock was lighter than John had expected, and he frowned as he was reminded of the fact that his friend had barely eaten in the past few weeks. He was a dead weight in his arms and his head lolled against John’s chest as he stood up, his precious cargo in his arms.

Without further ado, John rushed to the bathroom. Inside, he cautiously laid Sherlock onto the ground and then proceeded to turn on the shower. He quickly stripped down to his pants and held out his hand to test the water’s temperature. It needed to be tepid, anything else wouldn’t do.

When it had finally reached the required temperature, John crouched down in front of Sherlock and tried to rouse him again. Unfortunately, Sherlock still did not react to his desperate pleas to wake up.

“Okay, love, it’s alright, “John said nevertheless, and he took a deep breath before he reached out to pull the sleeves of Sherlock’s t-shirt from his slender arms.

It felt wrong doing this, without Sherlock’s consent, without him being conscious even, but it couldn’t be helped. He just hoped he wouldn’t wake in the middle of John undressing him and freak out because it possibly reminded him of previous situations in which he had been undressed against his will.

_God. This is all so wrong._

He carefully pulled the shirt over Sherlock’s head and discarded it to the side. Sherlock did not react then, nor did he stir when John efficiently pulled the sweatpants down his narrow waist and off his long legs, leaving him lying there only in black pants. He refused to look at Sherlock now in the state that he was in, almost completely naked and unconscious in front of him, and he tried to rouse him once again, without success. 

_Alright, here goes nothing._

Softly, and with his heart hammering in his chest, John hooked his arms around Sherlock’s back and under his knees and lifted him up once more. Sherlock moaned very quietly and pressed his face into the base of John’s throat, but he didn’t wake up. John swallowed and raised one leg very carefully, stepping over the edge of the bathtub. When he was sure of his balance, he put the other leg over, pulling Sherlock with him in his arms and stepping underneath the spray of the shower.

Sherlock’s body jerked violently as soon as it got in contact with the water.

“Shhh, it’s okay, “John tried to soothe him, as he lowered them down to the bottom of the tub and laid back against the tiles, positioning Sherlock between his legs, “it’s just water, calm down. We need to get your fever down.”

Sherlock began to shiver violently in his arm and John thought with dread that this had been a terrible idea, that he should have called an ambulance hours ago and that any decrease in Sherlock’s health would be his fault.

“Come on, Sherlock, “he said as he pressed him against his chest with his face down, strong arms still wrapped protectively around the man in his arms, shielding him from the water pouring down on them, “wake up. Come on.” 

At long last, Sherlock opened his eyes.

“John?” he whispered hoarsely, and he blinked as the water fell onto his face. John laughed in relief and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Sherlock, God, there you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little as he took in their surroundings. “John? What’s going on?”

“It’s okay. We’re in the shower, I was trying to cool you down. Seems it worked.”

“Hmmm.” 

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut again and John closed his eyes, too, his entire body tingling with relief. Sherlock felt frail and thin in his arms, his nakedness increasing his vulnerability and John swallowed as he was overcome with an almost unbearable tenderness for the man in his arms. 

But he would be okay now, John felt. 

“I’ve got you, love, “he whispered almost inaudibly into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder and tears welled up in his eyes as Sherlock raised his head to look at him with weary eyes, something of a surprise in them and maybe something else, John couldn’t tell.

“John, it’s cold, “Sherlock finally said against his chest and John nodded. He turned off the shower and positioned Sherlock against the edge of the bathtub, asking him to wait a second. Then he got out and held open the huge fluffy towel he had laid out beforehand. With a trembling hand on John’s good shoulder, Sherlock managed to get out of the tub by himself and he closed his eyes gratefully when John gently wrapped the towel around his pale, shivering body.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed, “John said, and Sherlock nodded. He looked dead tired and ill, but his eyes were clear now and he was lucid. 

He got him back into bed. Sherlock almost fell asleep again while John gingerly moved him to get him into a fresh shirt and sweatpants. The thermometer announced a temperature of 38.7° and a quick check of his pulse told him that his heart rate was close to normal. John sighed in relief. He would still have to monitor Sherlock closely which meant that he would not sleep again tonight, but he had a good feeling that they were out of the wood now. He managed to get Sherlock to drink half a glass of water and then he settled him back down against the pillow.

“Go to sleep, “he said gently as he clasped Sherlock’s shoulder. Now that Sherlock was awake and lucid, it was much harder to maintain the physical intimacy they had shared tonight until now. John knew that Sherlock had not really been awake and had only sought physical comfort because of his weakened state. But he tried to stick to the illusion that it was John’s comfort in particular that Sherlock had needed. His body warmth, his strong arms, his careful embrace – no one else’s would have been good enough.

But just as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut once again, the deep baritone John loved so much piped up quietly. “John? Would you hold me until I fall asleep?”

Their eyes met for a moment and a jolt of electricity shot through John’s body.

“Of course, “he said hoarsely, and he lay down next to Sherlock, after very quickly putting his clothes back on. To his surprise, Sherlock shifted even nearer and then laid his head down on John’s chest. Instinctively, John laid his arm around Sherlock, pulling him closer to his body.

“Goodnight, “he whispered, but Sherlock was already fast asleep against him, leaving John alone with his thoughts once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shower scene has been inspired by a similar scene in one of my favourite stories ("To Light Another's Path") by one of my favourite authors and she has generously permitted me to use that concept in my story. Thanks so much [BeautifulFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/profile)
> 
> Also, I'd probably like to write a sequel to this in which new aspects to this story will be explored, so this part is going to end pretty soon. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated ❤️ Thanks to everybody reading this story


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock was adrift. Floating between consciousness and oblivion, trapped inside an unfathomable limbus, a wasteland of nothingness, denying him access to his the ability to focus. To his unmitigated irritation, he found himself unable to grasp any coherent thoughts, he couldn’t function like he usually did. Instead, he was forced to make do with whatever bits and pieces of information his barely-lucid brain permitted him to process.  


It was extremely frustrating.  


He was coherent enough to realize that something was wrong with his transport. He was certain that he had been okay when he had retired to bed. Tired but fine, apart from the still noticeable wounds inflicted upon his body, mostly his throbbing shoulder and his concussed skull, reminders of unpleasant events of the past. But he had already gotten used to them, they didn’t bother him anymore.  


Even if everything was quite hazy to him, he remembered waking up at some point in the night. He remembered feeling very hot. It had felt as if his whole body had been set aflame and he desperately wanted to peel off his sticky clothes, step into the shower and revel in the cooling relief the water offered. But then, the heat had transformed into a sudden chill, gripping him tight into its merciless arms, and he had changed his mind. The cold was much worse than the heat, chilling him to the bone, freezing him from the inside, and leaving him weak and immobile. Desperation took over him. It was unbearable.  


He remembered John.  


John’s kind and gentle face, a concerned look marking its handsome features, as he talked to him, pressed him to his warm, beautiful body. He couldn’t remember what he had said, but did it matter?  


_All that matters is that he’s here. With me._  


_John wouldn’t leave me alone. He knows I need him. If he’s here, everything’s alright._  


The cold got worse, but Sherlock felt safe because he knew John was there.  


He drifted in and out of consciousness and he was annoyed at his helplessness, being at the mercy of this sudden unexpected illness taking hold of him. But he was too weak to fight it and he was just thankful that whenever he came to, John was right there with him, holding him, speaking to him, making sure that he was okay.  


What was really frustrating was the fact that he wasn’t able to enter his mind palace and that bothered him even more than the illness itself. What good was his body that it wouldn’t even allow him to seek refuge within the endless depths of his mind while he was reduced to being this shivering, fragile mess, a victim to his transport and its weakness to some sort of infection it had caught?  


Useless. Waste of time.  


Instead, he dreamt.  


Old memories reappeared in his dreams.  


There he was, in the lab, meeting John for the first time. Oh, what a glorious day that had been, meeting the man that would become his best friend. Although, at that time he hadn’t seen all the potential in John Hamish Watson. He had seen so much, Afghanistan, psychosomatic limb, alcoholic sibling ( _stupid, stupid: sister, not brother…._ ).  


He had just barely caught a glimpse of the genius that John was, had seen a hint of his bravery and kindness when he had shot the cabbie for him.  


But still, he had been blind.  


He had seen, he had observed, but still, he had not realized.  


The dream-memory faded and changed into something else.  


It was still that first day and they were at Angelo’s. John had just asked him if he had a boyfriend. This was the part where he had acted unbelievably stupid.  


But in this memory...this beautiful dream, Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He didn’t say that he was married to his work.  


Instead, he said, “I’m single and open to dating if you’d like.”  


The look of sheer astonishment on John’s face was delicious, but before he could see what he would actually say to Sherlock then, the memory faded away again, leaving him utterly frustrated at his own subconscious.  


He revisited a few places he and John had frequented, cases they had solved together: the foggy woods in Dartmoor, and the sterile laboratories of Baskerville. The swimming pool. Buckingham Palace. The morgue at Barts.  


Their living room, him curled up on the couch, far away in his mind palace, John in his chair, typing away at his blog.  


Every single one of these memories he re-visited in his dreams and in every single one of them, John smiled at him. Followed where Sherlock lead. Protected him when Sherlock needed him.  


Everywhere Sherlock was, there was John: irreplaceable, dependable, unquestionable. A mind-shattering omnipresence, in reality, dream and mind palace, everything that was Sherlock.  


He dreamt like this for hours.  


///  


At one point, his beautiful dreams changed into a nightmare.  


John was gone. Instead, there was a faceless man lying on top of him, kissing him, groping him, biting him. Although some tiny part of his mind knew that this was not real, that he wasn’t in any real danger, he was still terrified within an inch of his life.  


Huge, brutal hands explored his helpless body. A rough, deep voice whispered into his ear that he would take him now, take him hard and there was nothing he could do about it. Sharp teeth broke the skin of his shoulder, and there was pain, oh so much pain.  


He screamed.  


He begged.  


He didn’t want this. Not like this. Not like this.  


He cried and to his utter relief, the faceless man disappeared, leaving him alone in a deep and dark nothingness.  


///  


At long last, he was able to enter his mind palace again. The fever was still raging inside his transport, but it was less forceful now. Sherlock was still bewildered by the fact that John had dragged him into the shower and placed them both underneath the unrelenting spray of water. A million details had to be looked at, turned over, and analyzed and now that John had helped him get rid of the worst of the fever, allowing him entry into his palace, he could finally explore and analyze his most recent memories.  


Running up the stairs to the first floor, he entered the central corridor. The ‘John’ corridor. He would find everything he needed right here.

He opened the first room and was met with a burst of white light, so bright he had to protect his eyes with his arm. 

He frowned when he realized the bright light wasn’t going away. Frustrated, he slammed the door shut and opened the second room, only to be greeted yet again by the blinding light.

_What’s going on here?_

He slammed that door shut, too, extremely irritated and annoyed. What could he do now, if even his mind palace denied him the answers he so desperately needed?

But then he remembered. The hidden room. There had been a hidden room that had just appeared out of nowhere the last time he had been here.

This had to be it. The place where he would find an explanation for everything. 

He ran to the end of the floor and slid down the staircase, almost falling in his haste to get down. 

This time everything was quiet, he noticed. In contrast to last time, where everything had faded into a nauseating grey, the walls of his mind palace threatening to crumble, taking down the very core of his mind with it, all seemed to be well now. 

_How odd._

He had no explanation for this, but he decided to just go with it. Even if he couldn’t explain this bizarre behaviour of his complicated brain, he was thankful it was finally allowing him to access something it had figured out but didn't let him see before.

Something concerning John.

Finally, he found himself in front of the strange new room. The door looked ominously normal and his heart hammered loudly in his chest as he reached out for the doorknob. 

Would it deny him access yet again?

No, it turned easily and he exhaled in relief. Cautiously, he opened the door, half-expecting the blinding white light to make a re-appearance. He was wrong again.

There were pictures instead of light. Pictures of him and John, from the very first day of their meeting until today. 

Moments that he remembered very well. Them giggling at a crime scene. Sherlock stripping John off his semtex vest, John’s eyes closed with terrified relief.

Then there were pictures he couldn’t remember very well.

John holding Sherlock in his arms on a damp meadow in St. Edward’s Park. John cradling Sherlock against his chest on the ground of a dirty attic in a dirty warehouse somewhere in London. 

John looking at him with bright blue eyes, full of adoration and …. something else.

It was all there. In these eyes. In his hesitant smile. The pink tongue sticking out to lick his lips when he was looking at him.

The jealous frown of his mouth when Irene Adler dared to touch him.

The outrageous howl he gave when a crazy woman was pointing a gun at his head.

It was all there.

It was so obvious he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

_John is in love with me._

///

He woke with a start. As soon as he opened his eyes, nauseating pain attacked the inside of his head with drilling severity and he quickly closed them again. Breathing heavily, he counted to five, then opened his eyes again, slower this time, shielding them with his hand to give them more time to adjust to the light in the room. 

From the ray of light shining through a crack between the curtains on his bedroom windows, he could tell it was already late in the afternoon. 

The next thing he realized was the fact that he felt like he had been run over by a truck. His whole body ached with strain and exhaustion from the fever that had wrecked it. His head was pounding with an agonizing headache. The inside of his mouth felt like cotton and his throat was parched from dryness. He would give anything for just a sip of water. 

His shoulder was throbbing painfully, worse than before, and he knew it must have gotten infected, causing his body to attack the threat with a high fever. He felt worn out, too weak to even move a limb and yet he couldn’t stand lying here anymore. With almost excruciating effort, he pulled his arm away from his face, starting to lift his head from the fitted sheet.

Then he became aware of the arm around his waist and he froze.

_John._

John was lying right in front of him, his face only a short distance away. His legs were entangled with Sherlocks, his bare feet tucked between Sherlock’s calves, nestled there comfortably. His bright blue eyes were studying him intensely and he realized that John had been awake all along.

“There you are, “John said quietly, and a tired smile crept up his lips. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, dreading the answer already.

John’s lips pressed into a worried, thin line. “It’s five o’clock in the afternoon. You’ve been out most of the night and this day, almost 24 hours since the fever started.”

“Great. That’s just great.” Sherlock groaned, and he tried to raise his head, a mistake, he realized quickly. The pounding inside his head increased tenfold and vertigo got a brutal grip on him, blackness creeping in on the edges of his vision.

“Oi, careful there.” A steady hand reached out, cupped his face, and lowered him back to the mattress. “You’re still weak, you mustn’t overdo it, Sherlock. Alright?”

Sherlock harrumphed as he pressed his face into the fitted sheet beneath him, moaning pitifully as searing pain suddenly flared up in behind his eyes, almost causing him to double over in pain.

“That bad, huh?” John’s voice was sad, brimming with compassion, as he cautiously stroked Sherlock’s hair, barely daring to touch his aching skull. “Hold on, I’ll get you some paracetamol real quick.”

The mattress dipped as John got off the bed and Sherlock grit his teeth as the pain stubbornly persisted to torment his brain. He was dimly aware of the sweat clinging to the damp skin of his face and for a moment, he felt overwhelmed by disgust. He would try and get into the shower as soon as possible, although he realized that John might forbid him to do so, his overprotective nature taking over, like always when Sherlock was in a less than agreeable condition. He would probably be forced to apply his most persuasive techniques to get what he wanted. 

He was still reeling from discovering the shocking deduction inside his mind palace. He still didn’t dare believe it.

_If I’m right….If John really is in love with me….how do I feel about that?_

Another wave of mind-numbing pain washed over him and his fingers clenched into the mattress, as he tried to hold onto his thoughts. This was important. He needed to focus now. He couldn’t let his stupid transport take control over him, he was stronger than that. Besides, he had already lost so much precious time.

John was back, putting a glass of water onto the bedside table, his brow furrowed as he took in the tense way Sherlock’s body was curled into itself, his grimace of pain as he tried to breathe through the pain.

“Here, let me help you.”

Strong, determined hands reached underneath his shoulders and back and hoisted him up against the headboard with remarkable ease. Surprised, he managed to raise his head a bit and John shrugged when he caught his eye. 

‘I’m sorry love, you need to sit up drinking this and I’m afraid you’re still too weak to do it on your own. I hope it’s alright if I help you a little bit?”

Sherlock blinked. “‘s fine.”

“Here.” John’s palm opened and there was a small white pill. Realizing what was expected of him and desperate for some relief from the terrible pain in his head, Sherlock opened his mouth willingly, refusing to let the feeling of helplessness get to him. His being as an invalid was only temporary, what did it matter?

Very cautiously, John slipped the pill onto Sherlock’s tongue and for a second, Sherlock’s entire body lit up at the sensation of John’s hand brushing against his upper lip. Before he could fret about it, John had already turned to reach for the water behind him, and then he was putting a hand behind his head, pushing with gentle force.

“Drink.”

Sherlock allowed John to support his head while he drank the water, washing the pill down. Despite the help, moving like that had exhausted him and Sherlock closed his eyes wearily as John helped him lay back down.

“How do you feel? Apart from the headache I mean.” John’s soft voice was an anchor to reality, a beacon in the exhausting chaos of pain and weariness that was trying to push him down. Sherlock gathered his strength and angled his body towards that voice somewhere above him, drawn to its tempting perfection. He didn’t care if he seemed needy.

“I’m still tired, “he said wearily, as he forced himself to open his eyes. John was looking at him with an almost ridiculous amount of compassion, and Sherlock was almost overcome with gratitude. There was a lump in his throat he quickly swallowed down. 

“How can I still be tired, John? It seems like I’ve slept a lifetime.”

John’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, his whole face lighting up and something in Sherlock’s guts twisted, but in a good way.

“You haven’t slept that much. During the night, when the fever was at its worst, your sleep has been interrupted several times. It’s been on and off during the day, too, you were barely coherent most of the time, yet not fully asleep. So I’d say, you got maybe ten hours of sleep in the last 24 hours? Which isn’t nearly enough for someone in your condition. Ordinary people would need much more rest.”

Sherlock snorted weakly. “Please, John. You know I’m not ordinary.”

John’s lips curled into an amused smirk as he shook his head. “No. That you’re most certainly not.”

He continued to look at him with a warmth in his dark blue eyes that made Sherlock’s heart beat faster and suddenly his mouth felt dry. If he wanted proof for his theory that John was in love with him it was right here, in this piercing pair of eyes that seemed to caress his very soul with just one look. It seemed almost unfeasible that he wasn’t right and he swallowed as he tried to hold John’s curious gaze.

_What does John see when he looks at me?_

A tedious flatmate turned best friend that he somehow inexplicably had fallen in love with? An extremely clever man that impressed him with his outstanding intelligence and wit, even though it also tended to turn other people away? A helpless person that constantly got into hairy situations that left him injured and in need of John’s tender care? A blushing virgin he’d like to bed? 

_All of these? Something entirely different?_

Sherlock wondered and he wished he had the courage to just ask John. Their conversation from the night before yesterday was certain proof that they had left the frustrating phase of avoided conversations and unspoken words behind them. They were both anxious and nervous, as they tried to work out what the other person was thinking. They both sensed the restlessness and impatience from the other man and both of them seemed ready to finally talk about their feelings, own up to any pent-up emotions previously unmentioned.

Sherlock was glad that he had finally told John so many things last night. He had seen the relief and gratitude in John’s eyes when he had told him the truth about his fears and anxieties when John had been in prison. It had been very evident that John had needed to hear that, quite desperately so. Sherlock had owed it to him to tell him and he had been equally thankful that John had been honest with him as well.

Admittedly, he had been quite hurt by John’s angry words at the hospital. He had felt betrayed, abandoned by the one person in the world he had counted on, his best friend and loyal partner in crime. After he had been released from the hospital, he had actually feared that their friendship was over.

He had quickly realized that John had not really meant what he had said, it had been obvious in the way he had called after him when he had left the hospital room. Obvious in the desperate tone when he had called him from the police station. Sherlock had not completely understood why John had yelled at him like that at Barts but it seemed it had something to do with sentiments again. Not his area of course.

Therefore, it had been incredibly relieving for him to get an explanation for John’s behaviour. John hadn’t been angry, well, he had but most of all, he had been worried about him. Worried out of his mind, in fact, and Sherlock almost couldn’t believe that someone could possibly harbour such strong feelings for him. Because of him.

Yet, even with that matter cleared up, there were still things left unsaid between them.

Sherlock still needed to confront John with his theory. He needed concrete proof. He was rarely wrong, but this one time, he couldn’t rely on anything he didn’t know for a hundred percent to be the truth. His sanity seemed to depend on it.

But when he looked into those warm, gentle eyes he suddenly found himself unable to form a coherent sentence, closing and opening his mouth again.

“J-John, I….” 

But John shook his head, as he reached out and tenderly stroked his curly hair.

“Shhh...don’t talk. I meant what I said. You’re still exhausted. You need more sleep.”

“But…”

“No buts, Sherlock. I am your doctor and I’m telling you to go to sleep. I’ve just checked your temperature. That’s what probably woke you up, I’m sorry about that. But I needed to know.”

Sherlock instinctively leaned into John’s touch and John’s eyes lit up in subtle, delighted surprise.

“And?”

“It’s at 38.4°. Still a little too high for my taste. But it’s dropped quite a bit which is good. I hope that when you’ve rested some more, the fever will have broken completely.”

“But, John, I think we need to talk….”

He tried to prop himself up on his elbows but winced when the pain flared up anew in his head.

“See?” John’s tone was slightly reprimanding but still kind and patient. Sherlock allowed him to push him back into his pillow but he fixed him with what he hoped unnerving glare.

“John, I’m telling you, I cannot possibly sleep any longer. You know I don’t sleep like normal people. Me sleeping over ten hours is already incredibly tedious, you cannot expect me to even add to these hours. How much more time do you expect me to waste? Really, John, you can’t force me to go to sleep.”

John chuckled, the wonderful sound of it causing Sherlock’s heart to flutter in his chest and he huffed, surprised at the unexpected feeling of tenderness.

“I can and I will. You’re still too weak to fight me anyway.” 

His eyes sparkled and his lips twitched in a sly grin as he watched Sherlock’s frustrated expression and his annoyed sigh, his lips shaping into his typical pout.

“Tell you what?” he said suddenly. “I know a certain Scottish lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me when I was still a little boy and I couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. “You want to sing to me as if I was a child?”

“Yeah, I do. I swear it worked like a charm, every single time. Don’t mind the lyrics, they’re kind of sad. It’s not even a real lullaby, but my grandmother sang it to my mother when she was a child and my mother sang it to me. The melody’s beautiful, even if the song itself is sad. Come on.”

“Wait. Did you say it was Scottish? I thought your parents were from somewhere around Leeds?”

John grinned. “Yes, you remembered that right. But my grandmother was born and bred in Glasgow.” Sherlock stared at him incredulously and John chuckled in obvious delight. 

“What? You hadn’t deduced that from the fact that I prefer Glenfiddich over any other kind of whiskey? Or that I order Haggis at least once every year whenever I find a restaurant that serves it? Honestly Sherlock, you’re slacking.”

His eyes twinkled mischievously when Sherlock kept gaping at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t mention it to anyone. Come on now, before I change my mind.”

“Fine, but I will tell you to stop if you’re singing out of tune, ” Sherlock murmured petulantly.

“Ha. Agreed.” John winked at him and Sherlock could feel sudden heat rise to his cheeks. He quickly buried his face in his pillow, hoping that John had not seen it.

But John wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was fidgeting where he sat, fumbling around with the thermometer still in his hands.

“Would you….uhm...lie down with me?” 

He looked up at him then and there were so much hope and uncertainty in his face that Sherlock was inclined to grab his arm and snap at him ‘Yes, of course, you idiot!”

Instead, he tensed, uncertain about how to proceed.

_Bollocks._

This was where his inexperience in such matters was a real hindrance to him. What was he supposed to do? Should he act shy or should he say straight out what he wanted? Should he try to initiate intimacy or was he expected to wait for John to make the first move?

_Do I want him to make the first move?_

The heat in his face and also creeping down his lower body was suggesting yes, but Sherlock was still overwhelmed by his deduction of John’s feelings. Maybe he was just reacting to what he thought were John’s true feelings towards him, eager to accommodate his best friend, after everything he had done for him?

Maybe it was his way of thanking him, returning his affections so that John would feel appreciated and valued by him?

He didn’t know what it felt like to be in love with another person. Maybe he was mistaking friendship with love? Maybe he was mistaking physical attraction with love? He wasn’t blind or dumb, he noticed and cataloged every single reaction his body had in response to John’s presence, his words, his touch. It was obvious that he was very, very attracted to John, at least physically.

But what about his feelings for him? Was he in love with him, too? Did he want...them to be together? Together as in...a relationship?

Sherlock didn’t know. He wasn’t even really a hundred percent sure of John’s feelings, he still needed hard proof for those.

All he knew was that he was confused and that he needed to clear this tension between them. He couldn’t bear for all these questions to be left unanswered for much longer.

“Sherlock?”

The gentle sound of John’s voice pulled him back to the real world. 

“I’m sorry I asked, Sherlock, that was inappropriate.” John seemed subdued now, ashamed even, and that was something Sherlock could not abide.

“No!” he said quickly, his hand reaching out to cover John’s where it lay on the white sheets. “I’m sorry, I was just in my head a little. Please, I would be ….” he exhaled and blushed, “I’d be happy for you to hold me.”

“Yeah?” John looked hopeful again and warmth bloomed in Sherlock’s chest at the sight of that adorable eagerness.

He grinned shyly and looked down. “Seems like it works...for us. It helped me sleep through most of the night, if I remember correctly, so….”

“Right.” John looked at him fondly, then he laid himself down onto his back next to Sherlock and he held up his arm in open invitation. He still looked quite nervous, as if still waiting for Sherlock to change his mind.

Sherlock’s heart was beating in his throat as he raised his head, on the verge of shuffling closer to John. But before he could do that, John had already moved next to him, pushing against him so that Sherlock’s head rested on his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked and Sherlock liked the way his breath felt hot against his face.

“Hm.”

“Good.”

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and everything fitted into its right place. It didn’t feel weird or wrong to lay here in bed, cuddled against John, nestled into the strong, comforting wall of his body. It felt as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, the perfect match, only complete when they were together.

He was still at a loss at what to say, and John was unexpectedly quiet, so he tried to lighten the mood with humour.

“What, have you changed your mind? Won’t you sing to me after all? After all your teasing about your Scottish grandmother?”

John nudged his shoulder playfully with his own. “I will, you git, I’m just trying to remember the right words.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Silence settled between them and Sherlock was just beginning to ask himself if he had made a mistake, forcing John into a situation that was much too intimate way too soon, when John finally started to sing.

His clear, rich voice sounded strongly from his chest and Sherlock found himself entranced by the lovely melody. The John he knew seemed to fade away, replaced by a different version of him: younger, innocent, unmarred by war, pain, and humiliation. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself be carried away to where John’s beautiful voice was taking him.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin  
Dreams o peace an o freedom  
Sae smile in your sleep, bonnie baby  
Once our valleys were ringin  
Wi sounds o our children singin  
But nou sheep bleat till the evenin  
An shielings stand empty an broken  


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin  
Dreams o peace an o freedom  
Sae smile in your sleep, bonnie baby  
We stood, wi heads bowed in prayer  
While factors laid our cottages bare  
The flames fired the clear mountain air  
An many lay dead in the mornin  


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin  
Dreams o peace an o freedom  
Sae smile in your sleep, bonnie baby  
Where was our fine Highland mettle,  
Our men once sae fearless in battle?  
They stand, cowed, huddled like cattle  
Soon tae be shipped owre the ocean  


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin  
Dreams o peace an o freedom  
Sae smile in your sleep, bonnie baby  
No use pleading or praying  
All hope gone, no hope of staying  
Hush, hush, the anchor's a-weighing  
Don't cry in your sleep, bonnie baby  


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin  
Dreams o peace an o freedom  
Sae smile in your sleep, bonnie baby

At some point, Sherlock found himself drifting away. He tried to force his eyes to stay open because he wanted to hear the rest of it, too. But it was useless, oblivion was already pulling him back into its heavenly realm and he was floating, floating away, weightless in empty, endless space. John’s voice accompanied him on his way, the smooth honey-like sound cushioning him, easing his way, until it too, was gone.

///

He couldn’t remember what he had dreamt about this time. However, he realized as soon as he woke up, that he had slept soundly and he was feeling much, much better. He opened his eyes and relief flooded through him as the headache from before seemed only a distant memory, lingering at the back of his head. The exhaustion was still clinging to his body, but not in the way that it had a few hours ago, a heavy weight pulling at his limbs, dragging him down into tempting oblivion his body couldn’t resist.

No, this time, it was only the remains of the fever that had ravished his battered body and the worst of that was gone, he realized at once. He wasn’t freezing anymore, his body numb with depressing cold, neither was he a hot, sweating mess anymore. 

He felt refreshed, instead of exhausted. There was still the kind of daze that lingered around after a couple of days of fever and illness. But the promise of recovery was right there and his brain and body jumped at the chance of a return to normalcy. He needed this.

John was still there of course. 

Sherlock realized this the second he woke up. He was still pressed into John’s body, but in their sleep, their limbs had intertwined, John lying on his side now, angled towards Sherlock. Sherlock was curled up against him with his face snuggled into John’s chest, his long legs entangled in John’s shorter ones. John’s arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, a comfortable weight against his body and he was holding him tightly against himself in his sleep.

He couldn’t see John’s face from this position, but he could hear his soft, slow breathing, and he could feel his warm breath in his hair. Without thinking, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his nose into the soft fabric of John’s ratty old shirt, inhaling deeply. There it was, the sweet familiar scent of tea, and a hint of the cologne he sometimes wore, mixed with traces of disinfectant and soap. It was comfortably domestic, a scent that made him feel like home, and safety and that was so, so very much _John_. His throat went dry and he swallowed, trying to make the lump in his throat disappear.

He wanted this. So much.

Nothing could feel better than this moment. Lying here with John, lying in his warm arms, snuggled against his strong chest, the two of them tucked in bed, safely hidden away from the rest of the world.

He didn’t need anything else.

“Sherlock?”

John stirred and Sherlock held his breath as he stayed completely still, unwilling to let their casual closeness come to an end. Then there were strong hands on his shoulders, pushing him back gently. John shifted so that his face was on the same level as Sherlock’s, surprise lighting up his face when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t asleep.

“Hey...you’re awake.” A soft smile tugged at John’s lips as his half-lidded eyes studied him curiously. “How long?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back, rendered completely helpless in the face of the dazzling, disarming smile that belonged to John Hamish Watson. But inside his chest, his heart was thumping like crazy, because he knew the moment where they needed to talk was approaching rapidly. He was at a loss for words.

But John still knew him better.

“No, Sherlock, “he murmured as his hand reached out to cup his face fondly, rubbing his thumb against his cheekbone, “none of that now. You’ve only woken up and I see you’re already worrying about things. Don’t. We’ll figure everything out. Together, yeah?”

A shaky exhale left Sherlock’s mouth, and he nodded, swallowing once more as he looked at John. His anchor, his moral compass, his protector. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Much better.”

John’s smile lit up even more. “You look it.” His hand wandered to Sherlock’s brow. “I’d say the fever’s gone. Hold on, let’s check.”

He pulled away from Sherlock, sitting up on the bed and Sherlock had to restrain himself from chasing after him, grabbing John’s arm to pull him back against his body because he was already missing his steadying presence. At the last second, he stopped himself, frowning at his silliness. 

_What’s wrong with me? Since when am I this needy?_

“Here.” John held out the thermometer and his expression told Sherlock that he was giving him the option of taking it to put it into his mouth himself; clearly expecting him to take that offer. Keeping his eyes locked on John, Sherlock opened his mouth, providing John with another option. Showing him that he trusted him to take care of him like he had done all this time.

John’s eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly, smiled, and slipped the thermometer into Sherlock’s mouth. While they both waited for the verdict, they kept looking at each other, and Sherlock repressed the urge to shiver as sudden heat pooled in the pit of his stomach, causing him to fidget onto his knees restlessly.

John seemed nervous, too, as his Adam’s apple bobbed, his bright blue eyes flitting from Sherlock’s face to the ground and back again. At long last, the thermometer beeped and the eye contact broke.

“37,3°. The fever’s gone.” 

A relieved smile lit up John’s face as he looked up at Sherlock who returned the smile openly. 

“But that doesn’t mean you’re fit to go on cases already, Sherlock, “John said as he held up a warning finger. “I mean it. You’re still weak, you need to rest for a few more days, give your body a chance to recover. Is that understood?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes dramatically, a gesture he knew John was expecting because it belonged to their routine. 

“Yes, John. Of course, John, whatever you say, John, “he replied in a flat, monotonous voice.

John’s brows arched up dangerously, but then he saw the smirk lurking around Sherlock’s lips and his eyes widened.

“Are you pulling my leg? That’s it you berk, you’re on bed rest for a full week!”

“You can’t do that!” Sherlock protested at once. “A week is way too much, three days at the most.”

“Four, “was John’s deadpan reply.

“Alright, four.” Sherlock huffed dramatically, but they were both smiling at each warmly and something inside his chest was tugging. A warm fuzzy feeling filled him from the inside, his fingers feeling tingly, his whole body alight with pleasure, drunk on endorphins.

“So. I’d like to take a look at your shoulder if that’s alright, “John said eventually. “And you need to take your antibiotics, it’s time for your next dose.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock didn’t make any fuss as John got up to get the antibiotics and tape and gauze to change the dressing. He took his medicine without complaint and he didn’t say anything when John’s hand casually slid around his wrist, silently taking his pulse. He blushed, however, when John gently asked him to remove his shirt and he quickly pulled it over his head to hide his reddening cheeks, feeling absolutely mortified.

_Since when do I blush when John sees me half-naked?_

This whole situation was making him quite nervous, more than he was comfortable with, and he knew that he needed to address matters soon. First things first though.

“Do you think I could take a shower first?” he asked, as John finished the inspection of his shoulder and was reaching for the tape and gauze.

John considered this for a moment. “Hm. Well, yes, why not. I guess you’re up for it now. Here, let me put some waterproof plaster on that shoulder first.”

He made quick work with a huge plaster that he cut into the appropriate size and carefully applied to the still-messy wound on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Thanks.” Sherlock shot John a grateful look and moved to get off the bed to search for some fresh clothes when a soft, warm hand on his bare arm stopped him. Surprised, he looked up, into John’s worried face.

“Would you…” John started and he gnawed at his lower lip, eyes flicking to the side, as he pondered what to say. “Would you mind not locking the door? I’m worried you might slip in the shower and I need to be able to get to you if something happens. You seem alright now, but you’ll still be weak after that kind of fever.”

He was looking at Sherlock with a sort of cautious nervousness, apparently expecting him to snap at him indignantly, dismissing his concern as silly and unnecessary.

Instead, Sherlock smiled and nodded. “Of course, John.”

The open surprise on John’s face made his heart clench in his chest, and he quickly turned around and got off the bed. He opened his wardrobe and searched for some clean trousers and a shirt, glad that his suddenly hot face was hidden away from John’s attentive gaze.

Without looking at John again, he grabbed his things and headed for the bathroom. He actually swayed as he made the first few steps and he could practically feel John’s concerned gaze piercing into the back of his neck. But apparently, John was holding himself back because he didn’t say anything and Sherlock was thankful for it. He was done with feeling weak and helpless and John knew it.  


Because he always knew.

Slowly, he made his way to the bathroom, readily accepting John’s hesitant footsteps behind him. He closed the bathroom door behind him, not locking it, as promised.

Feeling a bit nervous about taking a shower in his still somewhat compromised state, he slowly undressed and started the shower. He climbed inside and positioned himself under the hard stream of water on slightly wobbly legs. But the second the water hit his weary skin, he felt better. Every cell in his body seemed to awaken, perking up as the warm water streamed down his arms, chest, and legs, re-charging him with the energy he had sorely missed.

The water washed all the exhaustion and tension down the drain, leaving him stronger and refreshed, if not still a little shaking in the knees, forcing him to hold on to the wall for support.

A wave of relief washed over him and he grabbed the bottle of his expensive shampoo as a new kind of motivation took hold of him. It felt really good to massage the silky pine-scented shampoo into his greasy curls, he could almost sense the exhaustion and pain dissipating into thin air as he rubbed and scrubbed at twisted knots of hair all over his scalp. He closed his eyes against the hard spray of water as he rinsed the shampoo out. Then he continued to wash his body thoroughly with generous amounts of soap and shower gel, relishing the heavenly feeling of cleanliness and freshness.

Thoughts of John and how they had woken up entangled in each other, their warm bodies seemingly glued together, suddenly filled his mind and he groaned, as sudden heat in his loins made him want to reach between his legs and follow an impulse he very rarely heeded.

Until now, it had been something terribly tedious. The needs of his body that luckily only made themselves known very rarely, and even more rarely strong enough to force him to succumb to them, rendering him a pathetic, helpless slave to his stubborn transport. He hated it, being this weak and he always felt bad afterward, feeling he had done something utterly beneath him, something that had absolutely nothing to do with science or cleverness or wit. Instead, it was a shameful act, based on pure physical needs, symbolizing the deficiency of human nature. It was extremely embarrassing that even he, the brilliant consulting detective couldn’t ignore those occasional vile demands of his body despite his fervent attempts every time they announced themselves.

But this...this felt different. Before, the needs of his body used to manifest themselves in unprompted erections after catching a few hours of dreamless sleep. It didn’t mean anything, it was just something that his body did, not something he wanted. This time the needs of his transport were directly connected to someone. Waking up to John pressed up against him had awakened something deep within him and he found himself aching with need. His eyes opened wide, as he stood there underneath the shower spray, his brain begging him to just do it.

To give in to the physical need of his body and succumb to its siren call, find relief here underneath the shower while thinking about John and his wonderful, beautiful face, the steadying warmth of his strong chest and broad shoulders, his capable hands keeping Sherlock secure and safe against him. 

_No._

_No, no, no, no._

He couldn’t do this. It would be wrong.

His cheeks heated in shame, as he proceeded to clean himself between his legs mechanically, stubbornly ignoring his half-hard penis begging for his attention.

Why would such a simple thing between them make his body want this? Why was he suddenly feeling weak with need and lust, just because John had held him close and looked at him as if he was the most precious thing in the world?

It scared him, feeling like this. Also, it filled him with a kind of satisfaction he hadn’t expected. He was happy that John was in love with him. Overjoyed even. He wanted him to be in love with him. He wanted John. Not just as a friend. Not just as a colleague.

But as a lover. A partner in every sense of the word. Together, they could not only solve crimes, make the world a better place, but they could also make each other better. Their minds focussed on cases during the day, their sweaty bodies entangled in the sheets during the night.

He moaned as another wave of arousal surged through him, and he clenched his hands into fists to keep them where they were, utterly annoyed with himself.

Once again, he found himself resenting his embarrassing inexperience and he wished he had allowed people that had shown interest in him to initiate something. Not a serious relationship, no, because nobody he had known before John would have ever been interesting enough for that, no one could hold a candle to John. But maybe something less, something superficial, a kind of friendship that also involved sexual relations. Just one of these kinds of relationships would be very helpful to him now, giving him some sort of guideline on how to deal with this.

Because Sherlock was an extremely clever and intelligent man: he could solve the hardest puzzles, defeat renowned professors and Nobel Prize-winning scientists in academic debates, but this was where he had reached his limit: he was utterly inexperienced when it came to human relationships, especially the intimate ones, the ones that involved love. 

_Of course, there was this one time when...No, no, that doesn’t count. That didn’t mean anything._

He had been much younger then and utterly stupid, too focussed on getting high and too greedy to stay away from that one dealer who would agree to payment in other forms than money.

This wasn’t helping in regards to his confusion about John. He therefore pushed the unpleasant memory away, irritated, because he thought he had deleted that. 

He sighed a heavy sigh as he finished cleaning himself. It was no use fretting about this. He needed to rely on his instinct in this and John’s experience as well. Since he had gotten to know John, he had seen the other man with dozens of women, so he must have quite the experience regarding sexual matters. Relationships too, although for some reason, they always seemed to end very quickly.

He had never seen John with a man though. John seemed very averse to the thought of being with another man, or at least he seemed averse to the thought of people thinking of him as gay.

This seemed to indicate that John had actually never been with another man. Somehow, this thought gave Sherlock relief: that John was as inexperienced in this matter as he was. Even if he had a notion of being in a relationship with someone, as well as the mechanics of sexual intercourse, he didn’t have any experience of being with another man, physically as well as otherwise. 

If they were to try this, they would both be ‘virgins’, so to speak, and both of them would try this out for the first time, together.

He shook his head, again annoyed with himself.

_I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m still not really sure if John wants me. There are some hard facts, I’m 95 percent sure I’m right, but there are some factors I may have not considered. Maybe I’m wrong. I cannot be certain about this until I have made absolutely sure._

He bit his lip as he turned off the now-tepid water. He needed to test his theory. He needed to make sure.

The thought of doing this made him feel nauseous, his refreshed legs already starting to weaken again. 

_What if I’m wrong?_

_What if he looks at me as if I’m mad, for thinking we could ever be anything else than friends?_

His stomach lurched and he grabbed the edge of the bathtub, needing to steady himself. His heart pounded in his chest as he imagined John’s face, surprised at Sherlock’s thoughts, maybe even shocked. Maybe his face would straighten into a tight smile, wrinkles forming around his kind blue eyes as he tried to let him down easy, explaining that he had never thought of Sherlock as anything else than a friend.

_Would he maybe laugh at me, for thinking this?_

_Oh God, would he get angry?_  


Nausea threatened to overcome him and he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, bile rising up in his throat, forcing him to swallow a few times rapidly, to push the urge to vomit away.

This was a great risk. Talking about this with John. It could end everything between them if he was wrong. He would not only be denied the prospect of starting something new and tender and exciting between them, but he would also endanger their friendship, threatening to destroy their strong bond with his foolish misperception of something that hadn’t actually been there.

Was it worth it?

On the other hand, if he never said anything, things would stay blurry and unaddressed between them and he wasn’t sure he could stomach that. Besides, he sensed that John was on the verge of addressing the tension between them, too, so he was not the only one noticing things. Of course, a lot had happened these past few days. Sherlock’s abuse at the hands of not one but two different perpetrators could very well be the reason behind John’s need to talk and Sherlock had no way of knowing if there was maybe something else John wanted to address. Something that involved him and Sherlock having romantic feelings for each other.

Would John address this? The sexual tension between them?

Would he be thankful for Sherlock addressing it?

He had no way of knowing and Sherlock almost howled in frustration, torn inside in the face of all this unsolicited, dreadful doubt. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. 

Normally, when he was on a case, he was used to acting on a hypothesis. He collected facts and figures, formed theories based on these facts, erased theories that couldn’t be, singling out the ones that could.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

This was what he knew. This was what he acted upon, day after day since he had been a little boy.

He had brought down countless criminals this way, had solved hundreds of cases, his brilliant mind relying on theories that he couldn’t be sure of a hundred percent. But he had almost always been proven right and he had never hesitated to act even if he never had that hundred percent. 

It made him crazy that he didn’t have these hundred percent right now. 

He needed to act, but those missing five percent could destroy everything.

Once again, he forced his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. Then he opened them again, flexing his fingers a few times, before starting to dress in his fresh clothes.  
There was no way of getting around it and he had to do it quickly. He had to make sure and he couldn’t bear going on without knowing. So he would risk it. And if he was wrong, he might lose John’s friendship.

Having finished dressing, he grabbed a comb from the sink. He positioned himself in front of the mirror as he started to brush through his wet, unruly curls, trying to tame them into something agreeable.

After a few half-hearted attempts he gave up, throwing the comb aside. He grabbed his toothbrush then, starting to scrub at his teeth like a madman. He was fully aware that he was biding his time, trying to avoid going out to John, to that conversation, they both knew they were about to have.

He was scared out of his wits.

After having brushed his teeth, he didn’t know anything else he could do to avoid going out.

On a whim, he took a look at his reflection in the mirror for a long time, although he had to force himself to do it. 

Because before, he had looked better than this. Now, his skin was sallow, even paler than usual, which didn’t make him look healthy at all. There were deep dark circles underneath his eyes, giving him the look of someone who hadn’t slept in days, even though he had slept impossibly long. His lip was still split from where that vile man had bitten into it and he winced at the unbidden memory.

Thinking about that man forcing himself onto him, his shameless hands all over Sherlock’s body, biting into him, kneading his helpless flesh, whispering dirty words into his ear - it almost made Sherlock double over and throw up into the toilet.

_No, stop! Stop thinking about this._

To his absolute horror, tears welled up in his eyes, as bile once again rose in his throat. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth, John’s calm voice guiding him through the process from inside his head. Calming down gradually, he splashed some cold water into his face, drinking from the tap right after to erase the uncomfortable feeling in his throat. Thankfully, it helped.

He knew that what had happened to him, both times, still had an impact on him. He would be stupid to ignore that. Even if it was silly, fretting over something that had happened to his transport, the threat of rape and murder had apparently still been strong enough to affect him, possibly even traumatize him. He hated to be this weak but he couldn’t ignore this, sooner or later he probably had to deal with this.

But later. This had to wait. He needed to clear things between him and John first. Everything else was not as important.

He caught his eye in the reflection and frowned when he saw that he was biting his lip again. Once again he looked at himself.

_Does John want me? Does he find me attractive?_

He would give everything to know. Looking at himself now, he couldn’t imagine anyone ever wanting him. Right now, he looked like the ghost of a person he used to be: tired, worn out, weak. Apart from that, his face was just too angular, his cheekbones too high, his eyes too far apart and there was his heterochromia. From a scientific point of view, it was truly fascinating, but from an aesthetic one...no. This had to be annoying people. Also, his lips...they were plush, and then there was the cupid-bow shape that had always irritated him. They were the lips of a woman, which was why he always had to endure lingering looks or lewd remarks about them, from other students when he was younger to clients and criminals he encountered nowadays. 

But his appearance was difficult in other ways, too. He was tall, lanky, bony. Taller than John, did that bother him? He didn’t mind. Even though John was short, he was strong and powerful, ever the capable soldier, ready to bring down any threat in a fight. He was tough, and Sherlock knew the older man could probably subdue him, even though Sherlock was taller and knew Baritsu. The sudden thought of John pushing him down to the floor, pinning his arms over his head, effectively trapping his body underneath his own caused an electrical tingling sensation to course all over his body. Once again, he was filled with shame.

He swallowed heavily and dragged his eyes away from his reflection.

This was no way to go about this. He could drive himself crazy, asking himself all these questions, obsess over his appearance, over John’s preferences, and his own insecurities. But it didn’t give him any concrete answers.

It was time to stop all this fussing and fretting.

Sherlock took another deep breath and opened the bathroom door. John was right there, as expected, leaning against the opposite wall. He looked up when Sherlock came out, trying to appear casual and failing miserably. It was obvious that he had spent the entire time that Sherlock had been in the bathroom, fretting and fussing on his own.

The heat rose in Sherlock’s cheeks when he realized that John had only been a very short distance away, as Sherlock had indulged in his indiscrete John-inspired fantasies, barely refraining from touching himself. He could only hope that John would not see his embarrassing thoughtlessness in his eyes.

“Ah, there you are, “John said with that short, false smile of his, that betrayed his obvious anxiety. “Good old Mrs. Hudson left us a casserole on the table while we were sleeping. I’d say we eat now, get something solid into you. Alright?”

Sherlock sighed, although he was relieved at the distraction, truth be told. “Alright. But only a little.”

“I’ll be glad if you eat anything at all, so…” John indicated the sitting room, prompting him to go first.

Sherlock looked at him and swallowed.

“Right, “he said and moved forward.

_To battle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! 
> 
> Good news though: I've already written the last two chapters of this story. They only need to be edited, I hope I can post them within the next week. 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMPnNaXLfKI) is the song that John sings to Sherlock. I've searched for suitable Scottish lullabies (sung by male singers) for quite some time, which was surprisingly difficult. This one kind of stuck out to me, even though it's not technically a lullaby (like John says). 
> 
> I found writing this chapter (and the next one, technically they belong together, but the chapter was getting so long, I had to split it) quite difficult. Wrapping up a story in a way that makes sense is kind of hard... Feedback, as always, is very much appreciated ❤


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was nervous. John could see it from the way his eyes kept flitting upwards to him, then quickly back down to the ground, as if he was trying to avoid looking directly at him. As if he was afraid that John would see something in his face that he wasn’t supposed to see. The fact that he was pacing their living room, picking up random pieces of things his fumbling hands found - a book, a forgotten teacup - looking at them without really seeing them, was a good indicator of Sherlock’s inner anxiety.

It only added to his own, inner restlessness, which wasn’t helping at all.

“Sherlock, “he said, forcing himself to smile warmly, and he pointed at one of the chairs, causing his friend to look at him as if he had gone mad, already forgotten about their plans to have lunch.

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous. We wanted to eat, remember?”

Sherlock hummed and ran a hand through his damp curls as he stopped his pacing abruptly, messing them up even further. 

“Come on, “John urged, his smile turning into something fonder, more honest as he noticed the endearing way Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You know how good Mrs. Hudson’s beef casserole is. Even a food critic like you can appreciate that, yes? She’ll probably come by later and ask if you had any. Just a fair warning.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that and let himself fall into the appointed chair in defeat. 

Pressing his lips together to hide his smile, John filled their plates and poured some sparkling water into their glasses. Sherlock glanced at his portion with a frown, raising an eyebrow at John silently, criticizing him for the size of the portion, although to be honest, it wasn’t big. Well, Sherlock had his own very subjective opinion in contrast to what normal people considered a small portion of food.

He drew his shoulder blades back and fixed him a hard stare, refusing to step down and Sherlock’s eyes flitted down again. Apparently, he wasn’t in the mood for discussing things. Which was a little worrisome, because normally, Sherlock wouldn’t hesitate to put up a fight with John, perseverating on his own point of view and refusing to acknowledge John’s valid arguments, pouting and stomping around like a little child throwing a tantrum. Thinking about it now caused John’s heart to clench with surprising longing. He wanted the old Sherlock back. His old Sherlock. The one that used to drive him mad, the one that put bullets into their wall because he was bored. The one that used up all their milk or toilet paper for dubious experiments, refusing to replace what he had taken without thinking. The one that looked at him with surprise on his beautiful face when John had said “fantastic!” for the very first time.

John watched as the detective finally grabbed his fork and started to poke at his food with it, drawing small circles into the red sauce as it flowed from the meat and pasta he was stirring up.

With a heavy sigh, he dropped his own fork.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his eyes for an instant but quickly dropped them again.

“Sherlock, please.”

When Sherlock still didn’t react, John reached out and carefully placed his hand over Sherlock’s. The detective looked up at him in surprise.

“I can see that you don’t want to eat. You probably think you’re not hungry.” John raised his other hand, stopping Sherlock before he could protest. “You might not feel it, but your body is probably starving. You haven’t eaten properly in days. Mycroft’s assistant has told me you have barely eaten anything while you were in his care. I know you haven’t eaten anything substantial before then. I can only repeat myself, try to get through to you. Sherlock, your body has been through a lot and after the fever you’ve suffered, it desperately needs nutrition. Please try to understand. I don’t want to force you. I’m just asking you to consider this. For me.”

Blue-green eyes pierced into his as if searching for the honesty in his statement. John was careful not to let his eyes drop and his throat tightened as he met the other man’s curious gaze, something entirely obscure and indiscernible in them.

Then they dropped and an almost guilty expression crossed that sharp-edged face. 

“Alright, “Sherlock said quietly. “For you then.” 

He laid his free hand over John’s hand covering his other. They both stared at their connected hands and John could almost feel the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, adding to the overall restlessness of his body. His heart hammered against his ribcage. The air between them was heavy, and they would probably hear a pin drop in the perplexing silence between them.

The moment was over before John could fret about it further. Sherlock pulled his hand away and that was that. Without looking at him again, he picked up his fork and started to eat his meal. He ate mechanically, not relishing the taste of the dish, but not wrinkling his nose in disgust either. He was eating his lunch, just as John had asked him to. Because John had asked him to.

Trying not to stare at his friend in a mixture of gratitude and concern, John forced himself to focus on his own plate. The food was probably as delicious as always, but he almost couldn’t taste anything. He was just too distracted by Sherlock and thoughts about what had happened between them. What was still happening between them.

His skin was still tingling from the way Sherlock’s breath had brushed against the base of his throat. His body had memorized the soft touch of curly, chocolate-coloured hair tickling his chin, the soft press of Sherlock’s long lean body curled against his own shorter one. After Sherlock had woken up that first time and he had lulled him back to sleep with his mother’s lullaby, John had stayed awake a long time, cradling Sherlock against him, basking in the wonderful feeling of warmth and comfort and rightness. He felt like he could lie there for hours, for days or weeks even. A lifetime, if Sherlock was only by his side, sleeping trustfully with his head resting on John’s chest.

Nothing had ever felt as good to John as that. Nothing as right.

It had felt as everything had been completely straightforward between them. There were no unmentioned mysteries, no clarifications concerning their relationship needed. They were there, together, happy. That was everything they needed.

Now, Sherlock was awake and well enough to eat. Well enough to talk about...things.

John was nervous, but he saw that Sherlock was nervous too, and it made him feel a little bit better. As they were eating their lunch, glancing at each other randomly between forkfuls of food, they both knew they were about to have a serious conversation, and it created a kind of nervous tension between them. 

It made John feel like a teenager again, confessing his feelings for his first school crush which was ridiculous because he was a man approaching his forties, for God’s sake.

He didn’t know if Sherlock suspected what John was going to say to him. The man was a brilliant genius, a proper magician who seemed to be able to predict what people were going to say just by taking one long look at them. It was a trick that still amazed John whenever he witnessed Sherlock doing it and it still made him feel as if he was in love with a mythical being from another world, so brilliant and bright that its light was blinding him. Was he worthy of this unearthly creature? 

Who knew?

And who knew what Sherlock wanted to talk to him about? Because Sherlock had tried to start a conversation a couple of times now, which proved that he had something important to say as well. But John had always stopped him, mostly because Sherlock had still been weak and needed to rest more. 

But he was fine now and there was no reason to delay their conversation any further. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe not.

John swallowed his last piece of casserole and saw that Sherlock was also finished with his small portion. He was actually surprised that he had eaten it all, expecting him to lay down his fork halfway through the meal, proclaiming that he was full. 

“Thank you, “he said sincerely, indicating Sherlock’s empty plate with his fork.

Sherlock graced him with a shy smile and John’s lips twitched nervously as butterflies fluttered in his stomach, heat creeping its way up to his neck. He loved that smile. It made Sherlock seem so human. Vulnerable, too.

“Come on, “he said, deciding to broach matters now before his courage waned again, and he stood up, “make yourself comfortable on the couch, I’ll make us some tea, yeah?”

“I could help you with that.”

“No, please, just sit down, alright?”

Sherlock acquiesced and made his way to the couch without any fuss. He curled up into the corner of the sofa and drew up his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he silently watched John make the tea.

John, aware of Sherlock’s attentive gaze, tried to put a neutral expression on his face as he prepared the kettle. When he finally settled down next to Sherlock, pushing a steaming cup of tea into his hand, he had managed to calm himself down enough so that he felt he was able to avoid blurting out his undying love for the detective within the first five minutes.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock stared pensively into his cup of tea as he blew on it, waiting for it to cool down enough for him to sip it.

John took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and closed it again. The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched but the man remained silent. 

_Okay. I can do this._

Once more, he inhaled deeply. “How are you feeling?” he started carefully, grateful that he had managed to speak after all.

“Fine, “Sherlock replied at once, and he smirked in response to John’s eye roll at the typical answer. 

“I mean it, John. I feel quite good. Still a little tired, howsoever that’s possible. My shoulder is still throbbing a bit, but that’s all. My headache’s gone. I feel fresh and clean and I have eaten my fill. So, really, John, I mean it.”

He finally looked up at John whose heart nearly stopped as those sapphire eyes settled on him, studying him calmly. “Fine, “he repeated after a few seconds, even softer than before, as he waited for John to accept his declaration.

Eventually, John swallowed as he held Sherlock’s gaze. “That’s uhm...really good to hear.”

His voice sounded hoarse, so he cleared his throat, his eyes dropping down into his lap. An awkward silence settled between them as they both sipped their tea, their knees almost touching but not really.

Inside his mind, a voice was screaming at John to put down his goddam cup, take Sherlock’s hand, and tell him what he really felt about him. Instead, he found himself speechless, opening his mouth and closing it again, feeling like a hopeless fool.

“John, I….” Sherlock was fidgeting with the half-full cup in his hands. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do.”

Sherlock did not seem surprised at John’s quiet agreement. He seemed thankful for John’s hesitancy to start their conversation, apparently giving him time to sort out his own thoughts.

After shifting on the couch a little more, he finally put his cup down and raised his head to meet John’s gaze nervously. He still seemed uncertain what words to choose and John could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he helplessly tried to form a sentence.

“John, it seems...I think that….there is something….” Sherlock stopped himself abruptly, shaking his head in increasing frustration and it was such an unusual sight to see the great Sherlock Holmes flustered like this, that John found himself staring at him, partly in disbelief, partly in fear.

_God, do I want to hear what he is going to say?_

_Maybe he’ll try to convince me to leave again?_

Panic suddenly rising within him, John drew a sharp breath and leaned forward. “Sherlock,“ he began, and Sherlock looked at him in startled surprise.

“I don’t know what’s on your mind, “John said quickly, anxious to finally get some things off his chest, “but I just want to say...if I overstepped a line last night with… you know tending to you...I sincerely apologize. I didn’t mean to pressure you or harass you in any way. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows arched high, sea-green eyes widening in genuine surprise. “What do you mean, John?”

“Well, you know.” He made a vague gesture with his hands, indicating Sherlock’s body. “Holding you in your sleep. Carrying you to the bathroom. Getting into the shower with you.”

Heat rose in his cheeks as he mentioned that last part but Sherlock blushed prettily too, which encouraged John to continue.

“I hope you’re okay with what I did. I know it must seem very extreme to you...but I couldn’t think of anything else to do short of just calling an ambulance. I was really worried about you, you know.”

“John.” Sherlock shifted a little closer and fixed him with a curious stare. “I’m extremely grateful that you didn’t call an ambulance. I would have not been able to refuse getting transported to the hospital, you had every right to do call them, and yet you didn’t. Why?”

“Because …” John gathered all his courage. “You don’t like hospitals and you had just been released from Barts. You were scared and angry, frustrated afterwards. I didn’t want you forced into yet another situation like that against your will. I wanted you to feel safe...at home.”

His voice trailed off and he reached out on instinct, grasping Sherlock’s hand where it lay between them. His breath hitched in his throat as he took another deep breath and looked at Sherlock in earnest.

“Sherlock, I …. I need to tell you something. I should have told you earlier, but I was just too much of a coward. Please, love, look at me.”

Sherlock looked up again and there were was a dampness in his eyes that John acknowledged but didn’t do anything else about because he needed to get it out now that he had finally started.

“Sherlock, I….when we had that talk two days ago, I didn’t say everything I needed to say. I must admit that I was shocked and hurt to hear you propose that I move out.”

“I only thought it would be better for you; “Sherlock interceded quickly, “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, John, nothing was further from my mind!”

“Okay, I know that now, “John replied slowly, trying to regulate his rapidly increasing breathing. “But how can you think that I would want to be anywhere else than here with you? I’m your best friend, remember?”

Something like disappointment flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes, I know. But you made it blatantly clear that it is hard for you to understand how I behave sometimes, especially after what happened in the past few days and I’ve already told you. I’ll try and change, I swear, I’ll try my very best, but I cannot change completely, John. Not even for you. I would if I could, but I just know I can’t.”

John squeezed the other man’s hand in reassurance, trying to make him understand. “No! You misunderstood. I meant what I said when I asked you to better look after yourself and I would love for you to heed my request to be more careful in the future. But... you don’t have to change for me, Sherlock. I don’t have the right to ask this of you. And if I’m completely honest….I wouldn’t want you to...change for me like that. I think you’re an incredible person. I’ve never met some special like you. You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily. His lips parted slightly, his eyes darting between John’s eyes as he tried to figure out the meaning behind John’s words.

“I am?”

A short laugh escaped John’s lips. “Oh yes, of course. You’re incredible. Brilliant. Amazing. Quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock blushed. “That’s what you said the first day we met, “he whispered hoarsely.

“And I meant it then too.” John reached out to cup Sherlock’s face, brushing his thumb against his sharp cheekbone. “But then, I only referred to your brain, your intelligence, the incredible power of your mind. Now...I’m referring to you as a person.”

He shifted nearer and saw Sherlock take in a sharp breath in reaction.

“Sherlock, I ….” He swallowed. Blinked. His thumb pressed into the pale, soft skin and he realized that Sherlock was shaking.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and he raised his trembling hand to cover John’s where he was holding him, their hands touching in intimate, almost fearful anticipation.

“I feel alone when you’re not there, “John said, his heart hammering in his chest as he dared to speak again. “I miss you the second you’re not by my side. I could lie on a bed with your head on my chest forever, it’s an almost incredible feeling having you so near….” His voice broke, and he swallowed, took another deep, shaky breath .”I want to kill anyone trying to hurt you. Seriously, I want to bash their brains in, rip the arms from their sockets, take them as far away from you as possible, anything so that you won’t get hurt. I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt. I ...it almost hurts physically when you cry….” 

He stopped again, swallowing down another heavy lump in his throat before he regained his composure.

“You...Sherlock….You’re everything to me, “John whispered, and he leaned forward, his face only inches away from Sherlock’s now.

Iridescent eyes widened ever so slightly and there was a hitch in Sherlock’s breath as John’s words sank in.

“John….” The words were almost inaudible, and yet John knew perfectly what Sherlock was trying to say. His eyes darted to Sherlock’s perfect mouth and he licked his lips automatically, noticing Sherlock’s eyes register this nervously.

Both of them seemed to hold their breaths, as their heads dipped forward, angled towards each other, just inches away from the perfect kiss.

His heart pounded against his ribcage, as John closed his eyes, waiting for the taste of those beautiful cupid-bow lips, the inevitable physical connection he had longed for so long finally coming to a close….

“Sherlock?! John?”

The door to their apartment flew open and they jumped apart in shock. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, a little out of breath as he stared at them curiously. Coming to a halt right behind him was Mycroft, dressed as usual in an immaculate three-piece suit, his outfit completed by the inevitable umbrella in his right hand, his brow creased in a somewhat scowling manner.

“Ah, you’re here,” Greg exclaimed. “You had us quite worried, not answering the doorbell. Your landlady let us in, she’s quite worried too, you know. Might let her know that you’re alive.“ He slumped heavily into John’s chair.

“The doorbell’s in the fridge, “Sherlock explained casually, as his eyes flickered once to John. “It’s been there for weeks, didn’t you know?”

“Ah yes, I must have forgotten about it.” Greg appeared rather content, a cautious smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and John wondered what that was all about. He was still shocked that he had been about to kiss Sherlock Holmes and even more shocked that they had been interrupted. By Greg and Mycroft, of all things.

_What the hell?_

_Have they seen anything?_

“Greg. Mycroft. To what do we owe the pleasure?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice but from the way both men looked at him, he had failed to accomplish that. 

“My apologies.” Mycroft’s tone was, as usual, painfully polite, but there was a hint of amusement too, as the tall man stepped forward to examine Sherlock and John sitting next to each other on the couch, John rigid and alert on the edge of his seat, Sherlock pulling his legs up against his chest again, an irritated frown crossing his pale face. 

After looking at them for a long moment, Mycroft didn’t even try to hide his smug smile. “We didn’t mean to interrupt any….intimate conversations or whatever you two have been up to.” With this, Mycroft’s eyebrows arched inquiringly at Sherlock, to which his brother only huffed and looked away. 

“However, we were both worried about you and wanted to make sure you were alright, especially you, brother mine. On top of that, we have rather agreeable news.”

“You needn’t have gone through the trouble, Mycroft, “Sherlock snapped as he turned away from John and tucked himself against the armrest of the couch, obviously pouting in his usual stance. “We are fine.”

The umbrella twirled in Mycroft’s hand. “That might be so, but I still needed to make sure. After Doctor Watson’s rather worrisome news concerning your sudden high fever, I was tempted to get you into the hospital myself.”

“You told him?” Sherlock looked at John incredulously but John shook his head patiently, meeting the younger man’s indignant’s glare without remorse. “Of course. You know how he is. He would have ripped my head off had I not kept him informed. And he’s your next of kin, it is my duty as your doctor to inform him. You were in danger of brain damage, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled and didn’t say anything, but he seemed to accept that statement, much to John’s relief.

“Yes, “Mycroft chimed in, “that is right, brother mine, so be grateful that Doctor Watson has wisely chosen to inform me, or I would have found out another way and things might have ended less fortunate.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an obvious challenge and Mycroft just smirked condescendingly, knowing his brother all too well. 

“Consider yourself lucky for having such a capable doctor at your side, Sherlock. And such a good friend as well.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed a light pink, much to his obvious annoyance, and John’s heart immediately swelled in fondness. 

“So you’re okay now, Sherlock?” Greg butted in. “You still look a little worse for wear, to be honest.”

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. “As a matter of fact, I am perfectly fine. The fever’s gone, John has checked. It’s been a rough couple of days, but it’s over now.”

In one swift motion, two heads whipped around to John for confirmation, as both Greg and Mycroft sought confirmation from the amused doctor. It was obvious they didn’t trust Sherlock to tell the truth, at least not in such matters. Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelieving indignation and John chuckled as he got up off the couch.

“Yeah, Sherlock’s telling the truth. The fever’s dropped completely. The shoulder has gotten infected, but I think the antibiotics will come through now. Of course, I will take a close look on it. He’s even eaten, so he should be completely fine after another week of rest.”

“Four days, “Sherlock corrected him with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Yeah, sorry, “John said with a warm smile and they shared a quick knowing glance that made Mycroft and Greg look at each other warily. They both realized something was going on, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Mycroft’s way of dealing with such a lack of knowledge was going on the offensive.

“You’ll be glad to hear the news we’ve got. Inspector?”

He looked to Greg who took the cup of tea John was offering him with a tip to his brow and a wide smile on his lips. 

“Yeah. We just wanted to tell you that the charges against you have officially been dropped, John. The charge of the murder of Mrs. Bendick as well as the charge of grievous bodily harm against Mr. Taylor, it’s all gone. There won’t even be a complaint. You’re completely free.”

John’s lips broke into a wide smile. “That’s good to hear, great.” He fixed Mycroft with an earnest look, as he offered him his cup of tea. “Thank you, Mycroft. I owe you a lot.”

Mycroft smiled politely as he accepted the tea with a gracious little bow. “Nonsense, John, “he said matter-of-factly. “You don’t owe me anything. I’d also like to add that Mr. Taylor has been charged with drug-facilitated sexual assault. It has come to our attention that he had been charged with sexual assault before, three times, as a matter of fact, all in the last four years. Unfortunately, he’s never been convicted of those, the victims changed their minds every single time, the charges were dropped. But he’s not going to get away this time. Now, he is out of the hospital - there won’t be any permanent physical damage, by the way - awaiting his trial and the judge has denied bail. He will almost certainly get two to four years of prison.”

“It’s less than what he deserves, “John growled out and everyone including Sherlock looked at him in surprise for his rather violent response.

“What?” He said with a shrug. “I’m right, am I not?”

“That you are, “Greg said with conviction and he drained his cup of tea in one large gulp. “And I’m glad you’re not getting punished for decking him. I shouldn’t say this as a police officer but if you hadn’t done it, I might have been tempted to do so myself.”

“Ta, Greg, I know.” John smiled at his friend with gratitude and they shared a short knowing look. Greg had seen him react to Sherlock’s abuse, both times. He had seen how John had almost blown his fuse at the sight of an injured, helpless Sherlock and he had stood by his side, defending him against his assailants, helping him without thinking twice. Sherlock was not always exactly nice to the DI and he could be a downright pain in the arse when the detective helped him along with cases, with all his bickering and insulting and rushing off crime scenes. But Greg still considered him a friend, someone worth fighting for, and John would be forever grateful for that.

He looked at Sherlock and thought that he seemed a little overwhelmed by all this information, staring into the room with his eyes glazed over. Maybe it was all getting a bit much for him.

“Hey, we appreciate your visit, “he addressed the two men cautiously, “but I think Sherlock needs to rest now. It’s all been a bit much for him.”

He deliberately ignored Sherlock’s appalled glare piercing into his back, choosing to meet Mycroft’s intense gaze instead.

“Yes, I believe you’re right, “Mycroft stated dryly as he took in Sherlock’s weary appearance, his unruly curls, the dressing gown slipping from his slumped shoulder, revealing the freshly dressed wound surrounded by naked vulnerable flesh. “Come, Inspector Lestrade. We should leave them to their well-deserved rest now.”

He left his empty cup of tea on the sink, then strode to the door, twirling his umbrella once again.

“Right.” Greg got up and followed Mycroft to the door, then he seemed to have a thought, turning to Sherlock again.

“Uhm..it’s good to have you back, Sherlock.” He quickly turned to John. “You too, John. I hope you’ll be able to truly recover now. Both of you.“ 

He paused before he addressed the sulking detective once more. ”I won’t take any calls from you, Sherlock. No, don’t look at me like that, I mean it. You can contact me again for cases when John allows it.”

John hid a grin in his sleeve as Sherlock’s eyes widened, a look of utter indignation and betrayal on his face. Even Myroft’s eyes twinkled mischievously, as the man’s lips pressed together. Luckily for him, that particular detail seemed to have evaded Sherlock’s usually so attentive eyes.

“We’re off, brother mine. Rest well. I’ll call mother and keep her up to date. Don’t worry, I’ll tell her not to call...at least not for the next few days. That should give you enough time to figure out your version of recent events. But do answer the phone when she calls, you know what’ll happen if you don’t.” 

Mycroft ended his little speech with another polite bow. “Goodbye, gentlemen.”

He opened the door, Greg right behind, when the deep baritone spoke up once more.

“Wait, did you two come together?” 

For a moment, Mycroft froze at the door and John grinned as he watched Sherlock shift to his knees in excitement, a triumphant look on his face, aware he had struck a nerve.

Mycroft turned slowly, glaring at his little brother silently, whereas Greg, to John’s amazement, blushed.

“It’s just as well, “Sherlock remarked with a simple shrug of his shoulder. “It seems the distraction is doing wonders for your diet, you finally seem to be losing weight. Congratulations.”

John, Greg, and Mycroft all stared at Sherlock as if he had gotten completely mad. He never said nice things to his fussy older brother. Never. This was with utmost probability the closest thing to a ‘thank you, brother’ that had ever left the detective’s sharp mouth.

At last, Mycroft smiled - a warm smile that actually reached his eyes - and he nodded, to Sherlock first, then to John. Then he turned and left without another word, leaving Greg to stare at them with a somewhat stunned expression on his face, until he too nodded, turned, and followed Mycroft out the door.

The door slammed shut and once again, the apartment was silent. 

John’s heartbeat picked up again as soon as he remembered what the two of them had been about to do before they had been interrupted.

He was glad that Greg and Mycroft had stopped by. They could be sure that everything was finally over now, Sherlock’s remaining attackers safe behind bars where he belonged, and John truly free from any charges that would keep him away from Sherlock. Everything was finally okay and they rest assured now, tend to each other, make that tension between them disappear.

_But how do I get that moment back?_

He was at a loss. Before, everything had seemed perfect. Somehow, they had managed to come together at last, both of them vulnerable and scared of finally revealing emotions long kept hidden underneath the surface. He had revealed his feelings for Sherlock or at least he had started to. Tried to. He thought he had seen the same affection in Sherlock’s shimmering eyes that he was harbouring inside, but now...

Now Sherlock was curled against the corner of the couch, making himself as small as possible. His face was bent down, and instead of seeming happy at the news his brother and Greg had brought, he seemed dejected.

_Have I said something wrong? Have I missed something? Oh God, have I ruined it all?_

A feeling of dread settled in the pit of John’s stomach and he swallowed, trying to push away nausea threatening to rise in his throat. He needed to get the momentum back, quickly, before it was too late.

Or maybe he should give Sherlock some peace. As he had told Mycroft, it had all been a bit much for Sherlock. The stress, the fever, all the trauma he had been through, and then being faced with John’s raw emotions…

_I shouldn’t overwhelm him. I should give him time to think about it….give him time to consider this…._

His heart stuttered in his chest as he thought it could be possible that Sherlock would still reject him, even if he had seemed inclined to kiss John as well. It was possible that he had only been confused by John’s emotions, that he had been on the verge of pushing John away, exclaiming his undying un-love for John.

He fiddled with Greg’s empty teacup.

“Do you need anything?” he asked awkwardly.

Sherlock looked at him silently and shook his head.

“I’ll just wash this then, “John murmured and he indicated the sink.

He turned but a quiet voice stopped him.  
“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” He turned again and froze as he saw the crestfallen look on Sherlock’s face. 

“Oh God.”

He was over at Sherlock’s side on the couch in a second, clutching both his hands between his own without thinking. “Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurting? Have I said something wrong? Please, just tell me!”

Sherlock was staring at him wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted, one stray curl falling into his eyes, and he jerked his head impatiently, almost absently, to get it out of the way.

“John, I…I need....” he started, then his voice broke and John’s heart clenched hard in his chest, it was almost too much.

“Yes? Just tell me, love, please?” He stroked the soft skin along the line of Sherlock’s face, his heart beating in his throat as his eyes rapidly darted over Sherlock’s trembling form, looking for injuries or indication that he was hurt and when he didn’t find any, trying to figure out what could be affecting Sherlock’s mental state instead.

“John….” A sob escaped Sherlock’s throat and John wanted to throttle him, scream at him to tell him what was wrong. 

He watched in horror, as a single tear made its way down Sherlock’s cheek, and he desperately wanted to wipe it away, stop more unexpected tears from flowing somehow.

But he never got the chance.

Because suddenly, Sherlock moved forward and placed his lips on John’s.

John froze. But after one terrible, heart-stopping moment of confusion in which he felt Sherlock tense underneath his hand, on the verge of pulling away at his apparent rejection, he reached out with the other hand, pulled Sherlock’s face forward, and pressed him firmly against his mouth.

Sherlock whimpered which almost caused John to release him, suddenly afraid that he had overwhelmed him, when Sherlock shifted closer, raising his hand carefully against John’s cheek, as his lips pressed once more against John’s. He pulled away then, panting for breath.

“Don’t go, “John whispered, leaning forward, chasing after that sweet, sweet mouth and Sherlock obeyed. Their lips re-connected eagerly, a shy clumsy brushing of mouths, panting breaths of air exchanged between them, as they parted and met again and again, their hands still clinging to each other faces as if clinging to each other’s sanities. 

Needing to feel Sherlock against him, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and pressed him even tighter against himself, pushing their lips against each other more firmly too. Tiny little breaths escaped Sherlock’s parted plush lips which encouraged John to slowly brush his tongue against the seam of those perfect lips. Sherlock tensed underneath him and John withdrew at once, closing his own lips, and kissing him chastely on the right corner of his lower lip instead, purposely avoiding hitting the spot where the lip was split.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

Out of breath, they withdrew from each other. Their foreheads brushed, as they held each other tightly trying to comprehend what just had happened.

“John, I ….” Sherlock’s voice broke off again.

“I know.” John chuckled as he kissed him once again, just a small tiny kiss on those gorgeous lips. “Me too.”

Then he realized that Sherlock was trembling and everything came crashing down within seconds.

“Sherlock! Oh God, what is it? Have I done something wrong? I’m sorry, did I go too far?” He grabbed the other man's shoulder, desperate to get some sort of reaction from him, but Sherlock was only staring at him wide-eyed and John was afraid he was on the verge of hyper-ventilating.

“Sherlock?!”

Sherlock gasped, his eyes widening in an increasing bout of panic. “I’m sorry, John. Please excuse me, it’s just….a little hard to breathe right now.”

John leveled his face with Sherlock’s. “Alright, Sherlock, listen to me. You know the drill. Take a few deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth, come on.”

Sherlock nodded nervously and he kept his eyes on John’s face as they breathed in and out together.

“Hey. It’s alright, love, come here.” Sherlock seemed on the verge of tears and John pulled him into a tight embrace.

“It’s silly. Oh God, this is so stupid, “Sherlock was whispering into John’s shoulder, as long thin fingers dug into John’s back, desperately searching for comfort and reassurance. With a shake of his head, John ran his hand through the trembling man’s hair, murmuring soft encouragements into his ear, soothing him until Sherlock finally calmed down, stilling in John’s arms.

John held him for a good ten minutes, stroking his back soothingly. It reached the point where he almost thought that Sherlock had fallen asleep against him when Sherlock finally cleared his voice and pulled back.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“Come to bed with me?”

John’s eyes widened, and Sherlock shook his head at once, blushing furiously. “No, not for ...that. Just….lie next to me?”

“Of course.” John stood up and held out his hand. Sherlock took it, and together they went into Sherlock’s bedroom where they quietly lay down on the generous bed. Automatically, they settled into the position they had just woken up from a couple of hours ago: with John lying on his back, and Sherlock curled up against him on his side, his face resting trustingly on John’s chest.

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head as he held the other man tight against him.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly as he tried to gauge the other man’s mood. He seemed alright, if not a little upset and vulnerable. Just a bit like he felt at this moment. He felt as if he was bursting on the inside, exultation and disbelief and shock battling for dominance within him and he was only barely managing to keep them bottled inside. Sherlock needed him to be calm now, so he forced himself to stay still, even though it took him all his willpower to accomplish it.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered in reply to his question, and he swallowed heavily. “It’s just that…..I can’t believe we just kissed.”

John reached out to trace the line of Sherlock’s face with his fingers, from the hairline down his beautiful cheekbone to the sharp angle of his jaw, cupping it gently and stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“Me too, “he said honestly. “I...I wished for that to happen for quite some time now, but I….I didn’t dare to dream it would come true.”

“Me too.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed almost translucent, and John found himself mesmerized as he watched them changing from blue to green and back to blue again in the hollow light of approaching dusk, making its way inside through the gaps of the heavy dark-red curtains.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, after a moment of silence.

“Sure, love?”

“About … this. Us.” Sherlock was downright bashful, it was almost unbelievable. This was a whole new side of Sherlock and John was incredibly grateful that he got to see it.  


“Oh, I’ve never been as sure in my life, “he said with conviction.

“But…” Sherlock hesitated. “You always said you weren’t gay….”

“That’s what I thought, “John admitted. “But, Sherlock. I was an idiot. I was too afraid to admit my own feelings to myself. I knew that you were my best friend. I knew that I had never met such an incredible person, never knew a person that was so extremely...extremely and utterly perfectly brilliant….” Sherlock made a choked sound and John squeezed his shoulder gently.

“But I tried to tell myself it was only platonic.”

“When did you realize it wasn’t?”

“When I saw you at the hospital. Two days ago. You had just fallen asleep and this kind nurse had pushed another bed next to yours. I was looking at you while you were asleep. You looked so….so utterly beautiful, Sherlock, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. But it wasn’t only your beauty. You had gone through so much, had to endure these horrible people doing horrible things to you. And yet, you always stayed strong. You refused to be brought down by these people. You still wanted to defy the world. And that’s when I realized, Sherlock.”

“Realized what?”

John took a deep breath and gently disentangled himself from the other man. Sherlock shifted onto his backside and watched nervously, as John sat in front of him, pulling his thin hands into his lap where he held and stroked them. He fixed Sherlock with a solemn look and finally spoke again. 

“I realized that I was utterly, madly in love with you. That I must have been in love with you for quite some time without realizing it. That I admire your strength and your confidence, your ability to sweep into a room and just own everybody, and everything. Your kindness. Your absolute wish to help people, trying to pretend that it’s all about the case when in reality, you feel for the people who have been robbed, hurt, or killed. You care, Sherlock. You care so much. And you have so much to give. You….have given me everything, Sherlock. You have returned me to life when I thought there was nothing left it could offer me. I came back from the war, a hopeless, broken man. I had nothing. I was sad and lonely and had no purpose in the world. You gave me a new purpose, Sherlock. You gave me a new sense of living. You...you saved me, Sherlock.”

He stopped, fearing he had revealed too much, too soon. 

_Oh God, that’s it. I’ve done it now. He’ll turn away now and tell me that he cannot do it. Any second now._

Sherlock’s eyes were impossibly wide and he was breathing faster than he should.

“Sherlock?” John reached out in alarm. 

“John, I ...I”

“Don’t. “ John said quickly. “You don’t need to say anything. You’re not under pressure here. Please, Sherlock, relax. I just needed to tell you this, it’s been weighing on me so much. But you don’t have to say anything to me now. Or ever. I’m okay with whatever you decide. You’re not obligated to tell me anything. Please. Sherlock. Talk to me.”

He placed a finger underneath Sherlock’s chin and gently forced it up, trying to get the other man to look at him.

“But that’s just it, John,” Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel the same thing.”

John’s heart leapt, and he felt almost dizzy with relief. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s fantastic, “John exclaimed incredulously. “Right?”

Sherlock was still shifting nervously. “I think so, I do. But ...I have to confess...I’m terrified, John. Terribly terrified.”

“Me too Sherlock. We’re together in this. Terrified.”

They both laughed as their foreheads pressed together, their hands clutching at each other in a desperate need for physical closeness.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Would you let me kiss you again?”

“Oh God, yes. More than anything in the world.”

Sherlock shifted nearer and John’s heart pounded in his throat. He closed his eyes as Sherlock closed his. He felt hot breath against his mouth and then the descent of warm, plush lips against his.

Sherlock moaned quietly as he pressed his lips against John’s and John wrapped his arms around him to pull him tight against his body.

They kissed without involving their tongues and it was perfect. It was sweet and tender and everything John would have wished a perfect first kiss to be. He had the most beautiful, most brilliant, and clever, and kind person in the world in his arms and he would never let him go again. Sherlock was practically melting against him and John sighed as Sherlock’s mouth pulled back a little, breathlessly panting for air, as his chest heaved heavily against John’s.

John’s body was screaming for more, but he tried to ignore it. This was a huge step in their relationship and he wouldn’t ruin anything by overwhelming Sherlock on the very special occasion of their very first kiss. Well, second kiss.

But just then, Sherlock opened his mouth. John’s tongue darted forward automatically, tracing the seam of Sherlocks wet, soft lips, not daring to push in lest he pressured the other man too much. But Sherlock moaned again and squirmed against him as if urging him on. So, without thinking, John obliged him. His tongue wandered forward to lick into Sherlock’s incredibly tempting mouth. For a second, Sherlock froze and John froze, too, but before he could pull out of his mouth, Sherlock closed his lips around John’s tongue, sucking at it, playing at it with his own tongue. 

John groaned out loud, sudden heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, and he pushed his hands into Sherlock’s chocolate-coloured curls, massaging his scalp with all ten fingers as he cherished the amazing feel of that soft hair as well as the sweet taste that was Sherlock’s mouth.

“John. John.” Sherlock was moaning into his mouth and God, John was so turned on, he could barely breathe. Without thinking, he pushed Sherlock down onto his back, rolling on top of him. His hungry tongue plunged forward, licking into the hot, wet mouth beneath him, as his hands wandered downward to eagerly slip underneath Sherlock’s shirt.

But then, Sherlock froze in earnest.

He went completely stiff beneath him and John could almost taste the fear radiating off of him, see the panic rising within him before the choked sob left his throat.

“Oh, Christ, I’m so sorry, Sherlock! Please forgive me, I’m an idiot! I’m sorry!”

He rolled off of him as quickly as he could, but Sherlock grabbed his arm before he could get off the bed and flee - this room, the flat, London, anywhere that wasn’t here.

“No! John, don’t leave. Please!”

John’s heart lurched at the desperation in Sherlock’s voice and he turned his body back towards him where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock the space he needed but not leaving.

Sherlock had scrambled after him frantically, eyes wide and frightened and his hand was gripping into the sleeve of John’s jumper. When he saw John looking at him with a startled expression on his face, he slumped down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. 

“I’m sorry. Oh God, I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“What?!”

John’s back went rigid as he stared at Sherlock in shock.

“What did you say?” he asked, dumbstruck. He felt as if he had missed something essential.

Sherlock didn’t answer, so John decided to take a risk. He scrambled back onto the bed, lying on his side next to Sherlock, careful to leave a strip of empty space between their bodies.

“Sherlock. Hey. Talk to me, love. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock made a strangled noise in his throat as he buried his face further into his arm. “I...we kissed...and I stopped it. I stopped our first real kiss.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I’m stupid. You must think I’m an idiot.”

“Oh no, Sherlock, no.” John dragged the arm away from Sherlock and cupped his chin, gently tugging at it so that he was looking at John. 

“Don’t you dare think like that. This is my fault. I was going too fast, I should be the one apologizing.”

“But…” Sherlock seemed at a loss. “It’s normal, isn’t it? Touching each other when you kiss…”

John swallowed a lump down his throat as he tried to keep his face relaxed. “Yes, but it doesn’t mean you have to do everything at once. Everyone has his own pace, Sherlock, and we can take it slow. No pressure, love, alright? You decide whatever you want to do.”

“I don’t want you to hold back because of my stupid insecurities.”

“No.” John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and spoke slowly, calmly, so that the other man would not miss a single word he said.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. You...you’ve been through a lot. You’ve been touched without your consent. You’ve been drugged and assaulted. Twice. That’s a lot to deal with. Please. Even if you don’t want to talk about it yet, you must realize that it has an affect on you. Do you realize it?”

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes were full of doubt as he met John’s insistent gaze. “Maybe?”

John took the other man’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Alright. Sherlock. We will go through this together. You decide our pace. I’m happy to follow your lead. You’re in control.”

Sherlock’s eyes glistened as they searched John’s face incredulously. “You mean it?”

“Of course.”

“Well. in that case, I’d like you to kiss me again. Just kiss.”  
“That’s perfect.”

He closed the distance between them and once again pressed his lips on Sherlock’s. Warmth bloomed within his chest when those flawless lips responded at once, opening up and inviting him in, giving him the sweet taste that was unique, and wonderful and so doubtlessly, beautifully _Sherlock_. They wrapped themselves around each other as they teased each other with tongues, lips and a bit of teeth, but John was careful not to let it go too far. 

After what seemed like hours they stopped and settled down side by side, facing each other. They talked in hushed tones: about the best way to persuade Greg to bring Sherlock some cold case files, about Greg and Mycroft’s curious connection and about which side of the bed both of them preferred to sleep on (Sherlock preferred the window side, John the one closest to the door: a perfect match).

Eventually, while John was telling Sherlock about Harry’s upcoming birthday and how he dreaded having to call her, Sherlock fell asleep. Just like that, mid-sentence. His eyes closed and his head lolled to the side, a couple of loose curls falling into his face as his breathing slowed down in peaceful slumber.

John watched him sleep, brushing his fingers lightly through those unruly curls, completely entranced and utterly content.

This was perfect. 

This was all he needed.

They still had a lot of things to talk about. Lots of things to work out, things that needed to heal. John would help Sherlock with anything he needed. Sherlock was already making John the happiest man he could possibly be.

The moon was shining into the bedroom, illuminating the bed on which the two men lay entangled against each other. John dared to pull Sherlock against him and he brought his face close to Sherlock’s hair, breathing in the faint scent of pines and cleanliness.

Sherlock did not wake, he only sighed in his sleep, pressing his nose into the hollow of John’s throat, his arm a light, possessive weight around John’s waist.

John didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know if they wouldn’t be facing further troubles come tomorrow. But right this moment, he didn’t care. He had Sherlock Holmes in his arms.

He was in love with Sherlock and Sherlock was in love with him.

And that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one epilogue to go and we're done!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted Chapters 18 and 19 at once, so don't forget to read Chapter 18

_Kensington, 8 am, the next morning_

Robert de Monier’s elegant fingers danced impatiently on the surface of his huge expensive Mahogany desk as he waited for his call to connect. He crossed his leg over the other one, wrinkling his face in disgust when he noticed how the motion caused his brand-new Armani suit trousers to wrinkle. How tedious. He would have to tell Sandra to take them to the dry cleaner’s later during his lunch break. He had an important meeting scheduled later that day and he always met business partners immaculately dressed.

Anything else was bad for business after all.

“Gino?” The call had finally connected. “Where the fuck have you been? This is the third time I’ve been trying to call you.”

Rolling his eyes at Gino’s following comments, useless and stupid as they were, he imitated the man babbling away to himself until he finally stopped him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, they are difficult, they are tedious. So what? Just deal with them, you know how. No, I don’t care if it’s messy, just get yourself some help then.”

The man on the other line was blabbering away again and he listened for another fifteen seconds, pushing a pencil into the blank paper on his desk until it penetrated the thin surface, breaking the pencil as he crushed it in his hand.

“Ugh, “he finally groaned into his phone, “You know what? I don’t need to listen to this crap. Deal with it. I’ll give you 24 hours, you know what happens if you haven’t dealt with them until then. You know the deal, I’ll call him. Yes, you’ve heard right. Him. Yeah, bye.”

He disconnected the call, then threw his phone onto the desk in disgust. Ugh, did he have to do everything by himself?

He grabbed the broken pencil and thrust it into his mouth, biting hard into the end piece even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to do that because of the lead.

Well, he would hardly die because of this. It would be surprising, to say the least.

His phone rang again and he sighed as he saw who it was.

“Elena? Hi, “he said, his tone completely different when he was talking to his assistant manager a few minutes ago. “Have you arranged for everything? Did you get all of the calla lilies I ordered? Three hundred? Great….No, don’t arrange them like that, do it like in the first picture, the one I sent you yesterday. Yes, yes, that’s right. And Elena? That eulogy I told you I was going to write? I’ll send you the draft later tonight, alright? Yeah, great, see you then.”

He disconnected that call as well. Shifting restlessly in his seat, he opened a drawer from his desk and took out a photo. It was the portrait of an attractive woman in her late forties, blonde silky hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, two single strands framing her hard but alluring face. The neon pink lipstick stood out against the cool black of her perfectly arranged black blouse. She wasn’t smiling.

It wouldn’t have been like her, to smile when a portray was taken of her. 

Susanna Bendick had been a vain woman but there had always been a kind of insecurity about her, only growing worse with every year she got older. She had been baring her teeth at the few younger women lurking around in her vicinity, trying to get a few scraps from her cake but she wouldn’t let them.

Robert smiled to himself as he remembered the way Susanna had even disposed of a few meagre secretaries of his, just because they had been prettier than her. He had told her that she was being ridiculous, that even though they were pretty, good for a quick tumble in the sheets in the afternoon if he felt like it, they couldn’t hold a candle to her. 

He had met her a few years ago when he had been introduced to Susanna as a silent business partner. Never had he met a woman so ruthless and so inspiringly interesting like her. She had managed to spice up his rather boring business life and he had immensely enjoyed the first few months of their hot, messy affair which evolved into something surprisingly different. He rose high in the ranks at the same time that she did. A business partnership in which both of them were equals, he respected her and she respected him. They maybe didn’t trust each other, but they valued and admired each other. 

He had also loved her, he guessed, at least in some kind of possessive, all-consuming way. The way that would probably have led to utter chaos and destruction some time sooner or later, but that didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was that he was quite upset because he had to attend her funeral tomorrow afternoon. 

Seeing her cold, dead body in the morgue had been quite a shock. Well, seeing a picture of her cold, dead body, because of course, as a silent partner he couldn’t possibly make an official trip there. 

Shame.

He shivered when he thought of the emptiness in her staring, dead eyes which surprised him because, after all these years in business, one should think that he had gotten used to this look. 

It had made him incredibly angry. Seeing her like this. It was such a waste of good talent and also, now they had to search for someone else filling her position, which would be very difficult. She had been very good at what she was doing. And ruthless, it couldn’t be appreciated enough nowadays.

He remembered the way he had made love to her in his mansion in Sheffield in front of his fireplace. A wistful smile curled his lips when he remembered when she had given him the extremely rare Brown Lilac stamp for his birthday on New Year’s Eve two years ago. He had been extremely pleased about that. Collecting rare stamps was one of the few real luxuries he allowed himself to indulge in.

His gaze lowered and focused on the newspaper in front of him. 

“ **Local human trafficking ring exposed by famous consulting detective.**  
**Sherlock Holmes recovers at home after being injured during his latest case. ”**

Underneath the headline was a picture. It showed a tall, thin man in his early thirties, clad in an elegant wool coat and a ridiculous hat on his head, turning away from the camera, trying to hide his face as he was getting into a black limousine. Right by his side was a shorter man with dark blonde hair. He was holding the other man by his elbow, guiding him into the car, a worried, yet stony expression on his face, his other hand on the small of the other man’s back. It was the face of a soldier, he recognized the rigid stance, the way he held himself. A small caption underneath the picture said: Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, colleague. 

Gritting his teeth, he slowly crumpled the page into a ball in his hand, crushing the faces of Holmes and Watson in the process.

He threw the crumpled paper into a corner, his eyes drifting towards the high-quality photos leaking out of a brown briefcase underneath the newspaper. 

There were dozens of pictures and all of them were of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Sherlock Holmes leaving Bart’s Hospital with another tall, elegant man, getting into a limousine. Doctor Watson also leaving the hospital, getting into a police car with what seemed a police officer in civilian clothes. Holmes and the other man getting out of the car at Baker Street. Holmes being ushered into the apartment by the other man, a weary, exhausted expression on his face. Watson, one day later, approaching 221B Baker Street in a cab, the same weary look on his face.

He knew that there was something about them when he studied both their faces. There had been a few articles of course. Newspapers calling them out as a couple, spreading rumours about their secret relationship. There had never been any confirmation of course, but when Robert looked at the way John Watson held Holme’s elbow, the hand on the small of his back, the gesture small but intimate, it looked close enough for him.

Lovers or just very good friends, it didn’t matter.

They had to pay.

They were the ones responsible for Susanna’s death. They were the ones responsible for the exposure of their London establishment, forcing him and his partners to relocate, costing them millions of pounds.

Oh, they would pay for that. He would make them bleed. And he wouldn’t delegate this to one of his associates, no.

This was personal, so he would take care of them himself.

Susanna’s father had tried to get to them the legal way, trying to get Watson charged with murder, and he had failed spectacularly. It seemed that Holmes and Watson had some high-level ties that made it possible for them to escape their just punishment.

Well, they were unaware of his involvement. They wouldn’t even know what was happening to them until it would be too late.

Who knew, maybe it would even be fun. Breaking them.

After studying the pictures for another few minutes, Robert grabbed his phone as he jumped out of his chair, dialling another number.

“Yeah, it’s me, “he said as he got some gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and thrust it into his mouth. While he lazily chewed on his strawberry-flavoured gum - his favourite - he moved to stand in front of his huge panorama windows looking down into the urban area of Kensington, thousands of people walking below, tiny and meaningless like ants.

“Yes, “he said into his phone. “I need you for a job. Not right now, no, we need to lay low for a little while. Could you be here by New Year’s? Give or take a few days. Yeah, great. And bring your tools, we’ll need them.”

Satisfied, Robert disconnected the call.

Christmas. He would grant Holmes and Watson that. Engage in some sentimental festivities, snog underneath a mistletoe and what have you. And right when they thought, they had been forgotten, he would make his move. They wouldn’t even see him coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! After falling in love with _Sherlock_ at the beginning of May and spending almost six months writing this story (how could I not have found this incredible show sooner?!), it's finally done. Writing this has been extremely valuable to me: it has given me a safe place in these strange times and this terrible pandemic we are currently experiencing (especially during the three-month-lockdown). Thanks to everybody reading this, giving kudos, and especially to those who have commented. Your support has given me motivation, and it makes me incredibly happy to know that there are people out there reading and enjoying my story ❤️ 
> 
> Further feedback is still very much appreciated. ❤️ 
> 
> So, as I said, I'm planning on writing a sequel for this. Please forgive me for the indulgence of the mustache-twirling villain in the epilogue, I just couldn't resist 😉  
>  I will, however, not continue writing this immediately. There are so many other ideas for stories in my brain begging for attention, which unfortunately means that this is going on a break. Maybe I'll consider continuing this earlier than I planned, but I cannot promise anything. Don't forget to subscribe to the series so that you won't miss an update whenever it will come.. 
> 
> For now, I have written two short stories which I'll probably be posting in the course of the next couple of weeks. One is Johnlock and one will be focussing on Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship for a change. Basically, I encourage anyone with a weakness for hurt, vulnerable Sherlock to subscribe to me because I'm going to keep writing him, and Johnlock, too ❤️ 
> 
> The next multi-chaptered WIP is already planned and outlined, I have started writing the first two chapters and will be posting them after the two short stories. I'm actually dipping my toe into Omegaverse, something I never would have thought likely just a couple of months ago. But since then I have read dozens of ABO-stories (with Omega Sherlock of course) and found myself loving most of them. It's just something that makes sense when you like a vulnerable Sherlock. I know it's not everybody's cup of tea, but I didn't know I liked it until I've tried it. Would love to see you around! 
> 
> Take care!


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